


The Great Escape

by ColossalMistake



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:41:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 56,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27459643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColossalMistake/pseuds/ColossalMistake
Summary: Three weeks ago, Echidna ruined his legacy. Four days ago, the only woman in the world he could call a friend died at the hands of a supervillain. Now the Birdcage has been opened, and Eidolon must rise to the challenge one last time.
Comments: 68
Kudos: 230





	1. The Great Escape

“David? Goodness, I haven’t seen you in here for months. Welcome back my son, welcome back.”

I mustered up a tiny smile as Father Prescott finally noticed someone sitting in the pews. He was a kindly older man with cerulean blue eyes that had dulled with time, dressed in a simple black suit adorned with the dog collar that all pastors wore. Prescott had served this little corner of Houston faithfully since before I’d moved to the city, and his presence was usually a reassuring one. 

“Father. I’d apologise for not coming more often, but work has been-“

“Pah, you have no need for excuses here. I’m just glad to see you well.” Father Prescott waved off my explanation with an unhurried grace, before gesturing to the hardwood pew beneath me. “May I?”

“It’s your church.”

“It’s the Lord’s church, I’m merely the caretaker.” I gave a humourless laugh at his joke. It wasn’t the first or even fifth time he’d said something to me along those lines, but it was pleasant to hear again.

He took his time settling into the seat as I glanced over my shoulder. The rows back there were empty, desolate pews which rarely saw use. Not that this was a bad church, far from it. Father Prescott kept the place tidy, keeping cobwebs out of the various nooks and crannies across the old wooden building. The windows contained beautiful mosaics, depicting saints in their various moments of triumph, colouring the floor in rainbow hues as sunlight poured through the glass.

When I’d first started out, I’d heard a few members of the congregation joking that my alter ego would wind up memorialised in one of those windows.

I hadn’t seen most of them for years, now. Understandable, really. It was difficult to maintain faith in a world where one of the most dangerous monsters around is an angel.

“I would ask if something’s troubling you, but I doubt you’d be here if you were content.” It would have sounded condescending if somebody else said it, but Prescott had years of experience in making his sarcastic remarks come across as compassionate.

“Always so observant.”

“Hmm? Who said that?” I exhaled slightly more air than usual as Prescott mimed looking around.

Leaning back against the wooden bench, I considered simply telling him everything. Admitting every sin, every crime against nature that I’d witnessed and done nothing to stop. An idle thought, but a recurring one.

The Doctor Mother and I had spoken about doing such a thing at length in the past. Eventually, we’d agreed that the mission was too important, and derailing it just to make peace with myself wasn’t worth the price. She’d concluded that the only one who could judge us was God.

At the time, it had been too easy to believe that.

Exhaling, I slipped into a familiar routine.

“It has been a _trying_ few weeks, that’s for sure.”

Prescott’s warm smile made it easy to keep talking. Man had the patience of a… very patient man.

“Three weeks ago, well… closer to a month ago, now, I lost a few things that were rather important to me.” The respect of the cape community, gone in an instant. My face, exposed to over a hundred parahumans. Dozens dead, men and women I’d fought and bled alongside, children I’d watched grow from timid Wards into battle-hardened heroes.

All because I hadn’t been strong enough to stop the Meinhardt girl.

Father Prescott nodded empathetically.

“At the same time, some rather personal secrets wound up being exposed.” The Cauldron connection, followed by the vials and the Case 53s… my doppelganger had certainly made short work of shredding my legacy.

I paused to take another breath. It sounded deafeningly loud, the entire church silent and listening.

“It wound up costing me my job. I was supposed to clear my stuff out and be gone last week.”

For lack of anything else to do, I reached up and ran a hand through my hair. There seemed to be slightly less there than last time. It was almost comical that with everything else going on, I’d be concerned about a thinning hairline.

“Then last Thursday, I-"

This was a tough one to say out loud. It still didn’t seem real.

“Last Thursday, I lost one of the only people in the world that I could call a friend.” A beat of silence passed as I tilted my head back and shut my eyes.

“Never rains but it pours.”

Echidna. Myrddin. Cauldron.

Rebecca.

What a mess.

What an absolute mess.

We sat there quietly for a while after that. Maybe if I just kept my eyes closed, I could pretend that it was someone else’s problem. Somebody else could figure out how to pull themselves together after all of this, and fix mankind’s best shot at stopping Scion.

If there even was a shot at stopping him. The rate my powers were draining, I doubted I’d be able to do anything more than glower at the golden man when the end came.

Moments later, I began to feel another power slipping away from my grasp. My agent just loved to twist the knife.

Thankfully it wasn’t anything major, simply a shaker effect that amplified vibrations. A burner power. I’d been switching to those more and more often in my downtime. It’d be stupid to risk losing a potentially useful ability when all I did was sit and bemoan my lot in life.

Another ability slotted into place, a blaster power that decreased in strength the longer it was fired. Fitting.

“Care for a platitude?” My eyes slowly creaked open. I’d almost forgotten Father Prescott was sitting there.

He’d asked me long ago if I was the kind of man who preferred to receive advice, or one who wished to seek out answers for myself. My response had been obvious, and since then, he’d never handed out advice, unsolicited or otherwise. Instead, he’d recite a verse or two designed to lift my spirits on a bad day, or provide comfort in the most challenging times. He was good like that.

I shrugged, but turned to face him regardless.

“Be strong and courageous. Do not fear or be in dread of them, for it is the Lord your God who goes with you. He will not leave or forsake you.”

“So don’t give up hope? Try to find the silver lining?”

“I’ve often found hope to be underrated.”

I gave him an unamused look. “Easier said than done.”

“True. But easier for you than for many others, I think.”

“How so?”

“You strike me as a man who keeps his thoughts on the future. The present may not be the one you wished for, but that is no reason to stop the eternal struggle.”

Saccharinely optimistic. Kurt would probably hate him.

“If you read history, my friend, you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next.”

The idea appealed, in a strange way. What was Cauldron if not a way to keep humanity alive long enough to see the next world?

Sitting here being a gloomy soul wouldn’t solve anything. Heaving myself upright, I nodded to no-one in particular. There must still be some good I could do. I wasn’t drained yet.

“Thank you for your time, Father. It’s more reassuring than you could imagine.” 

The elderly priest stood and bowed at the waist. “Glad to be of service.”

I was halfway towards the double doors at the back of the church before I turned and called out. “Father? I recognised Deuteronomy, but which verse did your second platitude come from?”

His kindly smile turned into a little smirk. “You can thank C.S. Lewis for that.”

I stared blankly at Father Prescott, his smile betraying how pleased with himself he was.

“I do read other books, you know.” 

With that, he shuffled off to tidy up the place, and I headed outside, shaking my head in disbelief.

The brief euphoria kept me going as I hailed a cab, and drove away from the city’s outskirts into Houston proper. Bit of a downgrade, compared to when I first drank the vial. I’d exhausted dozens of powers just to experience the thrill of flying everywhere. Wasteful, in retrospect.

Then I’d taken to using Cauldron’s portals, but they were taboo to me now. If I used them again, I’d go and see Rebecca, wasting hours discarding powers attempting to revive her.

So, Earth’s greatest hero found himself in the back-seat of a taxi, politely ignoring the awful music blaring out of the stereo. What a way to finish my time with the Protectorate.

As if on cue, the monolith of Houston’s joint PRT/Protectorate headquarters crested the horizon, looming above the city’s skyscrapers. A glass-fronted wonder, reflecting the barrage of Texan sunlight. The front entrance opened onto a small courtyard, decorated with shrubs trimmed to resemble iconic heroes. A monument placed next to the double doors bore the likeness of the winged shield emblem, cast in bronze.

All told, it looked more akin to a luxury hotel than the nerve-centre of parahuman operations in the southern United States. I’d seen dozens of theories behind _why_ it had been constructed in such a way, especially when most Protectorate buildings were reinforced concrete structures boasting round-the-clock forcefields, Tinker-made traps, or in Denver’s case, an actual moat.

The truth was, as always, far simpler.

After all, who in their right mind would attack the base of the Triumvirate’s strongest member?

Short sighted perhaps, but there had always been a part of me that enjoyed such a reputation. It was a balm as the years wore on, the knowledge that despite the thousands of villains and monsters across the country, none of them dared to assault Houston's PRT building for fear of running into me.

Even now, Houston boasted one of the lowest crime rates in the country. Most of the parahuman criminals had been arrested or driven out. Only the intelligent and the crafty remained.

And Bastard Son. How he was still operating here, I had no idea. I’d already broken his jaw twice, maybe a third strike would do the trick.

Just like that, the allure of nostalgia crumbled. Somebody else would be ruining Bastard Son’s day from now on. I’d been side-lined, removed from all but the most major of conflicts. Retirement at the ripe old age of forty three.

There was probably a joke in there about living the American dream.

I barely registered as the cab pulled up at the curb. Mechanically, I paid the driver, and began the long walk home.

It looked different from down here.

A handful of tourists were skirting around the edges of the building, posing for photographs with the topiaries or listening to a guide detailing the history of the PRT in Houston. One creative soul had set up an easel and was halfway through painting the structure.

I paused for a moment, and watched as the painter’s brushstrokes detailed the skyline around the building. Before all of this, I’d made an honest attempt at painting. Never had the dexterity needed to craft something worth looking at, but I’d treasured the pieces all the same. It’s hard to describe the feeling, the tiny spark of joy you feel from being able to create something that is wholly _yours_ , without needing help from someone else. Something you can point at and say ‘I did that. With my own two hands.’

I nodded approvingly at the artist as I walked past. He ignored me in favour of shading a particularly interesting cloud.

Another couple of strides, and I reached the threshold. The automatic doors slid open, as a gust of conditioned air blew past.

Finally out of excuses. Can’t put this off any longer.

I took the last step, and almost immediately wished that I hadn’t. At the far side of the lobby, past the reception desk, the tour guides, and the guards, stood my replacement.

He’d been making light conversation with a couple of the PRT security officers stationed near the elevator, but his starburst helmet had been aimed squarely at the entrance all the while. Immediately, he broke off their talk and walked towards me, making a show of being calm and unhurried.

“Ah, Mister Gibson. Your daughter is in interview room three. If you wouldn’t mind accompanying me?” Exalt’s voice was a deep baritone, just loud enough that anyone nearby would have their curiosity sated as to why the new leader of Houston’s Protectorate was talking to an ordinary civilian. Predictably, most of them looked away, feeling sympathetic towards the father whose little girl had wound up on the wrong side of the law.

I’d planned to use one of the hidden entrances to reach my office, but Exalt had put me on the spot instead. The only member of the team who knew my civilian identity, and of course he was the first one I run into. Couldn’t exactly walk away without raising questions, so I silently nodded and followed his lead, towards the set of double elevators at the rear of the lobby.

Another ability tumbled into the ether as the doors closed behind us, a Stranger power taking its place. I discarded that without hesitation.

A tense silence enveloped us as the elevators ascended. Exalt reached into a pouch on his belt, and wordlessly handed me a blank face-mask. I took it without acknowledgement.

After long seconds, the doors opened again, and we exited onto the twentieth floor. Reserved for the offices of leading figures in the Houston Protectorate and Wards.

“Come on. I haven’t got all day.” Exalt stormed off down the hall.

I twisted around to face his retreating back. “I had planned to-"

“Doesn’t matter what you planned _._ You’re collecting your things and then you’re leaving.” Exalt had abandoned his family-friendly tone as he paced down the corridor, stopping outside a corner office. He shoved the door open unceremoniously and marched inside.

I followed his lead, only to stop dead upon seeing the office’s interior.

A single desk sat alone in the middle of the room, with several small cardboard boxes piled up on top. The walls were bare, but the paint was faded in multiple places, leaving rectangular stains behind. Blinds had been drawn to cover the windows, and there wasn’t a chair in sight.

“You already emptied my office.” It wasn’t a question.

“Like I said, collect your stuff, and _leave._ ”

Exalt’s words fell on deaf ears as I riffled through the boxes. A lifetime’s worth of framed newspaper clippings stared back at me.

Holding up a collapsing bridge with one hand, while using the other to reverse time itself. A tsunami, held at bay by a green glow. The Butcher in chains, back in their fifth incarnation. Faded images underneath each headline, showcasing the millions of lives I’d saved.

The final frame lay nestled at the bottom of the box. It hadn’t been a heat of the moment shot captured by an intrepid journalist, or a staged photograph for the masses to buy on a poster.

It was simple. Beautiful. The four of us, back when this all began, watching over New York City from above. Hero had ushered us all up to the roof of a skyscraper, cracking jokes about how every good superhero should spend a night or two looking out at the urban jungle, ideally while brooding or contemplating the future.

Then he’d said something silly, something hilarious in the moment but forgettable as the years wore on, and snapped the photograph as we all laughed.

We’d each taken a copy, hanging them up in our respective offices. Hero’s had been taken down first. Alexandria removed hers shortly afterwards. Legend… I don’t think he took his down until a couple of weeks ago.

“You should have waited for me.”

“The rest of the team were ready to burn your stuff.” Quietly, I replaced the lid on the box as Exalt talked. “Dispatch floated the idea that you shouldn’t be allowed back in the building, full stop.”

Dispatch. He’d been there since the beginning. One of the inaugural Wards. I’d helped train him on occasion.

That stung, somewhat.

“You still should have waited.”

“For what, David?” I jerked around at the mention of my name. Exalt rarely ever used it. “For you to concoct some more lies to feed the rest of the team? They’re sick of it.”

“You can’t deny that I’m still needed. My presence…the rest of the team requires it. To hold things together here.”

Exalt laughed bitterly. “What the rest of the team _requires_ is for their friends and allies to come back. Gentle Giant left over the weekend, did you know that?”

“Exalt…”

“You didn’t, did you? Too busy mourning a mass murderer instead?”

“That’s enough.”

“Gentle Giant. Brickhaus. Vesper. Two Protectorate heroes and a Ward, all three gone in as many weeks, because of what you and your organisation did to them.”

“It wasn’t like that-"

“He was a fucking kid, David!”

“And he would have been dead without us.”

Years of experience kept me from shouting. Exalt wanted to get a reaction out of me, and I couldn’t stoop to that level. I let out a calming breath, and continued. “They all would have died. Cauldron didn’t kidnap people. They rescued them. The dying, the infirm, the crippled, the people who didn’t have a chance at a real life. We gave them that.”

“And turned them into monsters.”

“But they were _alive,_ Luke. Yes, maybe we messed up along the way, but at least they had a chance to live a life. Isn’t that worth the risk?” Neither of us acknowledged that I’d let slip Exalt’s civilian name. Didn’t really matter.

He simply shook his head. “You still don’t get it.”

“We gave people a second chance. What a terrible crime.”

I felt the air begin to stir around my head as Exalt’s frustration leaked out. “They were on their deathbeds. Do you really think they wouldn’t make a deal with the devil?”

“We helped them.”

“You helped yourselves. By your own admission, you went after desperate, vulnerable people, and then dangled a sliver of hope in front of their eyes.” The chill on the nape of my neck intensified as the air currents picked up. “You might as well have been offering meth to addicts. Of course they’d accept.”

He was desperate for that reaction. He wanted to crack the shell, to feel validation by forcing the villain he thought I was to confront my perceived sins.

My fingers clenched. His arrogance was astounding. I stared those sins dead in the eye every morning, every time I was too slow to save someone or too weak to help in the ways that mattered.

Another calming breath. He wasn’t the first. He wouldn’t be the last. I couldn’t allow myself to shatter at a few harsh words, despite how they scraped at raw wounds.

The world needed me to be stronger than that.

Slowly, I unclenched my fist. Exalt’s steel gaze never left my eyes.

I turned away, opening one of the desk’s drawers.

“And for what? To make a quick buck selling powers to other people? You preach about giving second chances to Case 53s, but they were just lab experiments to you. A way to refine your methods before selling powers to the highest bidder.”

Tucked away in the bottom drawer, still neatly pressed, sat my costume.

“You’re a monster, David, plain and simple. We might have to work with you against the Endbringers, but you don’t have any friends here. Not anymore.”

There was no point in arguing with him any longer. He wouldn’t understand. None of them would. Not without the crucial piece of the puzzle, the reason behind everything Cauldron had ever done.

“Fine. Believe whatever you will.”

I didn’t know if he derived some satisfaction from that, but when I looked up next, Exalt was gone.

Sighing, I turned the lock and began to change. The armoured under-layer, reinforced and sculpted to give a little extra protection. The dark green bodysuit followed, hugging the false curves of abdominal muscles. Heroes needed to look the part, and a balding, pot-bellied man on the cusp of middle age didn’t meet the narrow criteria. We needed our image, now more than ever.

A swish of the cape, fastened at the shoulders. The temporary face-mask was discarded, replaced with my custom opaque helm. Up went the hood and down came the sleeves. A subtle flick of a switch tucked into my right glove, and the green glow I’d become synonymous with began illuminating my hood, pulsing from carefully hidden LEDs that lined the costume.

Away went David, and out came Eidolon.

Another thought, and my current suite of superpowers fled, replaced with three new abilities. I was mildly surprised to see a teleportation power flare up. Those were rare.

Then I discovered that it could only move objects. I couldn’t even muster up the energy to sound disappointed.

Tapping the boxes, I watched as each of them warped and distorted before disappearing. Sent directly to the home I’d barely used for the past decade.

I felt like I should say something profound to mark the end of my time here. Or perhaps Exalt was right. No use in hanging around where I’m not needed. I’d already agreed to be the sacrificial lamb, standing down so that the Protectorate could continue, and every moment spent here was another moment where I didn’t remove the band-aid.

Eventually, I settled for giving the empty room a nod, turned on my heel, and left.

Only to almost be tackled by a young man in a sleeveless shirt sprinting around the corner.

His mouth, left visible by his costume, began to run on autopilot.

“Shi- oh God, sorry…”

“It’s quite alright. What’s the rush?”

“We’ve got a situation. Again.”

I tilted my head inquisitively.

“All hands on deck kind of thing. Same as a few weeks back. Sorry, real bad at this. I was just filing paperwork when the call came in. You’re helping out, right?”

He had an air of false bravado, but I could hear the nerves. Was that because of the situation, or because of me? A small amount of fear was common around here, especially when I was interacting with the newer capes. It was never easy to tell how people would respond to the weight of Eidolon’s reputation.

“Certainly. I’d be glad to provide assistance.”

The kid’s lips quirked up into a smile of relief and he rocketed down the hall, practically turning into a projectile. My third ability had finally charged enough for use, and I glided behind him. He was already hammering on the elevator buttons as I reached him, sending us several floors below.

“You were part of the last all hands event?” I asked, as the elevator slowly descended.

“Uh, yeah? I was kicking Echidna’s ass?”

Oh. I gave a cursory glance towards the young man as he bounced in place to burn off some energy. Stylised helmet covering his upper face, well-defined muscles in his arms, a logo of upturned antler horns on his chest- _ah._

“Ah, Young Buck. You performed with distinction in Brockton Bay.” He swelled with pride. Three weeks, and he was the first person who went to the Bay that didn’t hate me on sight.

The doors had barely slid apart before he launched forwards again, as if he’d been shot out of a cannon. Then his momentum arrested itself and Young Buck stopped dead in mid-air, landing heavily by the situation room. Nothing could be heard from inside, a testament to the building’s soundproofing.

A quick flash of his ID badge to a scanner mounted in the wall, and we were allowed entry.

Then came the noise.

“Shit shit shit, that’s not supposed to be possible.”

“Have we got confirmation that the others are secure?”

“Sir, are we deploying?”

“New York says to hold steady!”

Some unfavourable curses stood out amongst the uproar, coming from a gleaming white suit that watched me while trying very hard to look like they weren’t staring. I turned slightly, and Dispatch fell silent immediately. Cowardly.

Exalt glanced back towards us and swore under his breath. “Just couldn’t take a hint, could you?”

“I merely wish to provide assistance. I’ll be gone as soon as this crisis is over.”

“…Fine.” The strain in Exalt’s voice was palpable. Maybe he wasn’t ready to assume leadership after all.

Brushing past Dispatch, who seemed intent on muttering uncharitable things about me, I took up my usual position at the head of the room. Cutting edge computers lined the two walls on either side of me, each being manned by a trained PRT operator. Heroes and Wards were scattered throughout, dodging runners as they sprinted from the room clutching sheets of paper. The Deputy Director was amongst them, already on the phone, calling for her superior.

A gargantuan monitor took up most of the back wall. In times of peace, it displayed the PRT’s logo atop a stylised picture of Houston. Now, it was filled with a single large image, a young woman dressed in stereotypical prison garb, scowling at the camera as it took her mugshot. Relevant information passed underneath on a scrolling tape, detailing her name, estimates on her powers, and date of arrest.

Several logos lined the very top of the screen. The Protectorate’s shield, the Guild’s spear, and Dragon’s own personal emblem. Things began clicking into place, and not in a way that I felt comfortable with.

“Situation?” I called out to no-one in particular.

In the din, I wasn’t certain if anybody had heard me, or if they just chose not to respond.

Seconds passed before Young Buck answered, moving away from the screens to stand alongside me. “He says,” Buck pointed over his shoulder towards a technician operating one of the terminals, “we’re not one hundred percent sure yet, but a few minutes ago, an individual successfully escaped from the Baumann Parahuman Containment Centre.”

I turned to stare at the Ward, and he nodded. “Yeah. Birdcage’s been breached.”

“By this woman?” I gestured to the screen, and Young Buck shrugged helplessly.

“Sorry, but I know the same as you do.” He twisted around and pointed towards Exalt. “He’s been trying to contact the Protectorate leadership, but so far all they’ve said is to hold tight and wait for more information.”

“I see…” I trailed off as a loud beeping noise began to echo from speakers attached to the gigantic monitor. A second picture rose to join the first. An older man, his hands aflame.

“New intelligence from Dragon! Second escapee confirmed!”

Then a third image.

A fourth.

Within moments, the entire screen was covered in small mugshots. The chaotic din only rose in volume.

“Multiple prisoners-"

“-lost contact with nearby capes-"

“-Kaze confirmed loose-"

“-fuck me, Gavel’s in the wind, repeat, Gavel-"

“-Director Wilkins is calling for pre-emptive S-Class designation-"

“-Chevalier’s requesting volunteers from every team-"

The pictures were a blur, shrinking constantly to accommodate the influx of images that refused to cease. I discarded my abilities without a second thought, hoping for something that could provide a solution to all this.

Instead, my agent saddled me with a Thinker power that provided perfect recall. Every single one of their faces became burned in memory as the list continued to grow.

“-Guild has mobilised-"

“-snowstorm blew in, our satellites are blind-"

“-empty, the whole thing is empty-"

“Confirmation from Dragon, Glaistig Uaine’s free!”

An air of finality settled over the room as the last picture slid onto screen. A blonde child, her mouth twisted in the mimicry of a smile. I could have sworn that her eyes were peering into mine, despite the photo being two decades old.

“It’s not a breach. It’s…all of them. Loose.” I didn’t spare Young Buck a glance, but his bravado appeared to have fled.

As the din in the room rose to a fever pitch, I remained silent. I’d asked for another chance to be useful. A second chance to help as many people as possible before they put me on a shelf, a relic to be laughed at before the end of the world.

God had answered.

Now it was my turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone once told me it was not possible to write a story about Eidolon. I originally started writing this out of spite to prove them wrong. Now, we've got a post-Levi canon divergence fic starring a whole bunch of minor fan favourite characters. The first arc and a bit of the second are prewritten, so expect frequent updates until those run out.


	2. Interlude: The Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, there are several POV changes in this chapter. It's also uncouth to post an interlude as the second chapter, but I think it's necessary in this case.  
> ~~~~~~

“Oh ye-ee-eeees!” With both arms raised towards the sky, Tom Moss cheered while petite snowflakes drifted onto his bare skin. He’d always known it was a matter of time before that bitch of a lizard messed up, and she’d only gone and done it in the best way possible.

The tiny crystalline flakes sizzled as they touched him, dissolving into nothingness. It had been a long time coming, but man did it feel good to breathe fresh air again. 

This was why you never let a woman be in charge of anything. Useless broads always cocked things up. 

Holding his arms out to either side, Tom pointed his head up and closed his eyes. Hell yeah, this was what life was all about. The crisp feeling of untouched snow underfoot, a bubbling stream splishing and splashing its way downhill, the brisk chill of the wind… 

Damn, he hadn’t realised how much he missed fucking _wind_ of all things.

Slowly, Tom stopped holding on to his human shape, letting his true body out to experience a taste of freedom. He could feel the tension seep away as the snow dissolved around him. The grass melted next, boiling and burning while he stretched out several years’ worth of aches and kinks.

Mm-mmm-mmmh. A cold hillside in the middle of nowhere, USA. Compared to the cage, it was a freaking paradise.

After a minute or two of pure bliss, Tom finally sighed. Couldn’t stay out here, regardless of how good it felt. 

Where was here, anyhow? A reluctant glance around showed little in the way of defining features. Burnt patch of grass that had now dissolved down into muddy dirt, frosted treeline, an outdoor parking lot just down the hill, mountain range- _bingo._

As that spectacled nerd had been so fond of saying, their hell on Earth was located somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. If those were the Rockies, then he really needed to get a move on. The Protectorate were a bunch of jackasses, but they were a bunch of jackasses with helicopters, jets, and a whole load of flying idiots.

No chance he was going back in that cage again, not if he could help it. Although with pretty much every hero in the country gunning for him that might be easier said than done.

So, assuming that time really was not on his side, what did he want to spend his newfound freedom doing? The moment he showed up in public again, the heroes would be on his ass faster than you could say ‘Fuck Legend’.

The answer came to him immediately. If he was going to get caught anyway, might as well get caught taking out the bitch that got him arrested in the first place. He’d spent so many nights dreaming about that moment, he could almost taste it. The tender, bubbling feel of her skin against his acid, her petrified shrieks when she realised those useless jerkoffs couldn’t save her, that blasted power of hers finally giving way against the tide of his own abilities… 

Yeah. He wasn’t going to waste this shot. 

But he’d be remiss if he didn’t indulge himself a little bit first. 

Reforming into something resembling a man, Acidbath paced down the hill, eyes focused on the parking lot’s latest arrivals. 

~~~ 

With a final click, the last of the tumblers fell into line, and the door swung inwards. Rolling his shoulders, Ricario D’Alleva stepped across the threshold and came in from the cold, a pleased grin on his face.

People had snickered behind his back when they saw him keeping up his trade-craft in prison, but it paid dividends now. They were probably all running around like headless chickens, lost in the snow. Easy pickings for Dragon’s suits, especially if she was using a thermal camera. 

But if she scanned here, all she’d see was a single, simple soul, tucked away in a log cabin, sheltering from the cold.

You didn’t run one of the best gangs in North America for half a decade without picking up some counter surveillance skills, after all.

Ricario crept further into the single storey house, careful not to disturb the aged floorboards. A flickering out of the corner of his eye forced him into a crouch, but on closer inspection it was just a few stray licks of flame from the fireplace. Even from here, he could feel the warmth flooding through his bones. 

His steps were shorter, quieter, as he snuck into the cabin’s living room. Last time around had been a mistake. He’d gotten sloppy, allowed the Protectorate to catch him unawares. 

That wouldn’t happen again.

Especially after the televisions in the Birdcage had shown that news report a few weeks back. The fucking wizard had finally bitten the dust. Good riddance. Served him right for arresting Ricario and trying to dismantle his group.

Poor Myrddin. He probably thought that driving the Bolts out of town would be the end of organised crime in Chicago. Idiot. 

Sensibly, Ricario looked over the room. The fireplace sat at the centre, surrounded by a handful of tattered armchairs and the odd end table. He took another cautious step forwards, and froze immediately.

A noise, coming from one of the armchairs.

He didn’t dare breathe as the noise reverberated around the cabin. His heart pounded in his ears, and Ricario waited as a tense silence finally settled over him once again. 

This wouldn’t do. Alone, unprepared, that was when he was weakest. He needed others with him, others he could _trust._ That had been his undoing before. Hadn’t vetted the right people, hadn’t checked everything himself. Sloppy.

His reign as the lord of Chicago’s underworld ended the same way it had begun.

With a knife in the back. 

As the snores rumbled the cabin’s walls once again, Galvanate’s smile warped into something sinister. Now _there_ was an idea.

He could even see the kitchen from here. 

~~~ 

“Y-you can’t d-do this…” 

Flames licked up and down his arms as tiny hands worked to pry his fingers apart. Gavel’s only response was to laugh, tightening his hold around the criminal’s neck.

“Can’t do what? Stop a wanted murderer before they strike again?”

He’d played nice inside the Birdcage. Limited himself to crippling and maiming. His crusade was too important to risk, and loath as he was to admit it, the faerie cuckoo was too much for him to face alone. Aggravating her wouldn’t have been worth the risk. 

“You’re a d-damn lunatic!”

But he wasn’t in the cage anymore, was he? 

Gavel barked out another laugh, a deep guttural sound that echoed around the countryside.

“A lunatic? Of course I’m a fucking lunatic!” Leaning forward, Gavel stared his latest quarry dead in the eyes. They couldn’t hold his gaze, trembling and shaking as his fingers squeezed against their windpipe. Good. 

“I spent years cleaning up Australia with a fucking hammer! Did you really think I was normal?”

Another gout of flame washed over him. It felt refreshing, like finally waking up from a long nap. 

“Did you really, _honestly,_ think that any of us… any of us messed up capes were normal? We’re all batshit crazy!” 

He could feel the life slipping away from his target with every passing second. Others had judged the little wretch, named him as a criminal. Gavel was simply carrying out the sentence. 

“But I’ll let you in on a secret.” Gavel pulled his prey in close, until he could whisper directly into their ear.

“I might be crazy, but I’m the exact kind of crazy this world needs.” 

Cinderhands’ struggles weakened. His eyes rolled backwards, accompanied by a final ember drifting loose from his charred fingertips, and he fell still.

Gavel clenched his fist, savouring the feeling as a loud _crack_ rang out across the landscape.

It felt like progress.

Unceremoniously, he let the limp remains drop, watching as they clattered against the grass. It was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. There were so many others out there, lowlifes guilty of every crime imaginable.

If he wanted to make an impact on their numbers, he’d need to go big. Terrify the little shits into submission. Send them crawling back into whatever rotten hole they came out of.

But who to hit first? The Slaughterhouse? No, Dragon had made the headlines a few weeks back after the death of the Siberian. Destroying a broken group wouldn’t put the fear of Gavel back into the hearts of scumbags.

The other cell block leaders? Pointless. The heroes would be all over them soon enough. Besides, he was sick of dealing with them. He wanted fresh meat. 

No, he needed to hit somebody that he couldn’t reach in the Birdcage. Somebody large enough to terrify the living daylights out of villains across the world. Ideally, someone who’d be easy to track down. He’d been out of the game for a while, and he didn’t have anything resembling contacts or connections on this side of the world.

And then he had it. Scary, simple to locate, with one hell of a reputation. Even those pitiful Protectorate heroes were afraid of this one.

Setting off at a bounding run, Gavel bellowed as his strides ate up the distance.

“Ready or not, here I come!” 

The Rocky Mountains disappeared from view as he shot off, laughing all the while. 

~~~ 

“Aren’t you just the perfect gentleman?” Miranda Webb purred, fluttering her eyelashes as her companion draped a thick winter coat across her shoulders. Faux leather. How pedestrian. 

“Happy to help a beautiful young lady, miss.” Her escort practically swooned from the tiniest bit of affection. Barely even a challenge.

She could see past his pitiful façade, clear as day. Animalistic, base urges, only restrained by a thin veneer of civility, his wanton hunger for her writ large in every movement. How his eyes lingered on her body when he thought she was looking elsewhere. The reluctance to let go as his fingertips trailed over the coat’s shoulders… 

Playfully, she nudged him with her elbow. “So what’s this I hear about your farmhouse in the country?” 

Miranda watched as John’s face, already red from the sheer exertion of talking to a pretty woman, flushed further towards bright crimson. It was John, wasn’t it? Or had it been James? Jacob? 

They all blurred together before too long. Once she’d had her fun, she’d move on to someone a touch more _interesting_ than some no-name farmer in the Canadian wastes.

Maybe that goody two shoes in New York could keep her entertained. How far could she twist his cannonblade before he marched to her tune… 

Miranda shivered at the thought.

“It is a little chilly, isn’t it?” Hmm? Oh, the farmer was still talking. About the weather, of all things. No wonder he lived alone in the wilderness. 

Mustering up what remained of her innocence, Miranda pulled the coat tighter around herself, nodding at her new plaything.

“It’s not far now. I’ve got a phone there, you can call your friends to pick you up.” The man who might be John shook his head. “Imagine abandoning a sweet young thing like you. And after a costume party no less. Unthinkable…” 

Miranda gave him a soft smile in response. Clearly he didn’t inherit the brains in his family. Or the looks. Or much of anything, really. The runt of the litter, clawing desperately for something that could give him validation.

Then a pretty woman practically drops into his lap. He probably couldn’t believe his good fortune. Already, Miranda could see the miniscule gears turning inside his mind, of how he’d try to convince her to stay. Shreds of hope that he’d finally found someone that would stop his parents from asking if he was ever going to get married.

That was all the weight her paper-thin cover story needed to keep him from getting too curious.

“Here we go! Nice and cosy.” Her escort proudly pointed at a ramshackle hut at the edge of a field. Miranda rolled her eyes. This wouldn’t do at all. 

“After you, Ms. Webb.”

She flashed him a smile so forced that it looped back around to appearing natural.

“Please, call me Ingenue.” 

~~~ 

Green lasers peppered the wall behind her as Abigail Rowan-Sato danced to the side, never expending more than the minimum amount of effort necessary to dodge the blasts. Kicking off from the concrete structure, she leapt forwards, transitioning from a leap into a handspring as her opponent continued to turn the floor into Swiss cheese.

Twisting in mid-air, she converted the move into a drop-kick, feeling the momentum shift as it travelled down her legs, directly into her opponent’s sternum. Her orb swept in from the rear, sliding the cape’s footing out from under them.

Abigail watched impassively as her impromptu steed crashed into the ground, her feet still firmly placed on their chest. Verdant sparks fizzled in their palms as they gasped for air. Unimpressive. This one possessed little talent, and even less potential. Taking them on as a new protégé would be unwise. 

A pity. She’d been cooped up for too long, and the artist’s touch had left her. In the old days, it would have been trivial to find the perfect canvas for her art. Now all she had was this wretch, writhing around on the floor as she idly dug her heel further into their chest. 

Perhaps a hunt for inspiration was in order? 

“Surr…surrender, Crane!” 

Abigail leaned backwards as a white light speared out of the cape’s arms. She could feel the rush of air as it brushed past her face. What a waste of time. 

The blast spluttered out with a whimper, small sections of skin crystallising and flaking off her opponent’s body while they struggled beneath her. She watched with a predator’s gaze as they forced their right arm across their body to reach at something on their left wrist. Their grimace deepened, as though the simple act of moving their own limbs was causing them abject agony. 

Intriguing. 

Abigail flicked the cape’s hand away from the device before they could press anything. Crouching down next to them, she ignored the groan of relief from the prone cape as she stopped placing weight on their chest, and examined it herself. An armband of sorts, with a small screen on top and two buttons on the bottom.

Deftly, she slid the armband off of the cape’s wrist, and lifted it to eye level. A grid flashed on the screen, accompanied by a series of icons and numbers. Co-ordinates? 

Her piercing gaze turned to her beaten opponent. “This device. Tinkertech, I assume?” 

She took the pained wheezing to mean yes.

“Dragon’s?”

Another wheezing gasp. 

“The icons. What do they represent?” 

Nothing. Foolish. Any competent warrior should know when the battle is lost.

Taking her opponent’s left hand in her own, Abigail swiftly manoeuvred her digits to encircle their pinkie finger. 

Her face betrayed no emotion as she twisted and pulled, listening to the cape’s screams as their finger was ripped out of its socket. 

“The icons. Or do you wish for another demonstration?” 

Silence, undermined by pained gasps. 

Another pop. 

Another scream. 

“The icons. This is becoming repetitive. Perhaps I’ll get creative with the next one.” 

She was halfway through bending their middle finger backwards before she got a response.

“Shi- okay, okay! They represent heroes! Fast responders!”

Annoying, but not unexpected. Abigail finally released her opponent who curled up on the floor, shielding their crippled hand with the rest of their body.

This armband was a mixed blessing. Their ex-warden could most likely track them, but they also showed her the glaring holes in the Protectorate’s response. The breakout must have caught them off guard. New icons were filtering in constantly, trying to fill the gaps in the defensive line, but if she left now… 

Rolling her eyes, Abigail took a step to the right as a quite frankly, pathetic, blast of green light soared past, impacting against the far wall.

Judging by the distances between the incoming groups, she could sneak through there, and then… 

Another blast, this one little more than a fancy lightshow. It wouldn’t have hurt her even if it did connect. 

Then, it was just the small matter of reigniting her muse. Her art was still there, tantalisingly close but just out of reach. Inspiration alone wouldn’t be enough. She needed to see some of her old handiwork, run herself through the basics again. Like riding a bicycle. You never truly forget, but sometimes the information gets buried a touch too deep. 

Abigail allowed herself a small one-sided smile. That’s decided then. A visit to an old student would get her past this block, bringing her art to the world once again. The armband could help her get past the encircling arms of the heroes, and then… 

She glanced back at her fallen foe. Their costume was close enough to her size. 

And nobody ever questioned who was underneath the mask of a Protectorate cape. 

~~~ 

Cold. 

That was the word, wasn’t it? Cold. There was… cold, on her face. White cold.

Mechanically, Akemi forced her head upright, out of the cold that lay on the ground. She’d fallen. Landed spread-eagled in the cold. 

Her movements were slow and deliberate as she carefully placed one hand into the cold, pushing it against the ground. Its partner mirrored the motions, steadily lifting her upright.

What was happening? The grey was gone. She liked the grey. It helped. Gave her structure. 

Now it was all light blues and solid whites.

That wasn’t good. The people who poked and prodded her, who treated her like a rabid animal, they said that things shouldn’t change quickly around her. Too many changes, or the wrong change, or even the _right_ change at the wrong time, and she’d lose herself. They’d locked her in the grey, and she’d been safe. This… this wasn’t right.

She had to go back. Needed to find the grey. There was a routine there. The grey kept things simple. It told her when to sleep, when to eat. Was she supposed to do either of those now? 

There was nothing here to tell her. Had meal time been and gone, or was it too early? She looked to the blue, silently willing it to provide an answer.

The blue didn’t respond. 

No more grey. No more structure. Her fingers twitched by her side, grasping for something else beyond her reach. 

What was she supposed to do now? 

With no other ideas, Akemi began to walk. Each step was slow and controlled, as if she needed to consciously remind her body of the correct motions. The blue began to fade, only to be replaced by more white cold.

Then she saw them. People. Similar to the people who shared the grey with her, but different somehow. She tried to think of the correct words, scrunching her eyes shut in deep concentration, but the words fled before she could catch them. They kept doing that. 

And next to the people was… the grey? 

It didn’t look like _her_ grey. These were smaller, mixed with browns. But it was better than staying out in the blue, wasn’t it? 

She didn’t know. The grey would have told her.

Her legs slowly plodded towards them, as her mind fought a losing battle against itself. 

~~~ 

“There’s a certain thrill in reaping the rewards of one’s preparations, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“I’ll be the first to admit that I hadn’t expected things would unfold in such a manner, but having a plan in place on the off chance that the Birdcage was ever opened has paid dividends.” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“I wonder how far the others will get. Most of them had resigned themselves to their fate, but I imagine a few still had a card up their sleeves. You could almost make a game of it. Which inmate will survive the longest before being recaptured?” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“Of course we aren’t included in that group. That would imply we’ll ever be caught. Fresh air is simply too good to give up a second time.” 

“Yes, Teacher.” 

“Oh, what’s the point of telling you anything? The six of you are too far gone. Loyal servants, and I thank you for your service, but absolutely horrible conversationalists.” 

“Yes, Teacher.”

“Well you’ll do for the time being. The others will return in due course. They enjoy the freedom subservience provides too much to stay away forever.” 

“Yes, Tea-” 

“Yes yes, I get it. Enough.” 

“…” 

“Ah, looks like our escape route is ready. Come students, let us be off in search of greener pastures.” 

~~~ 

“We don’t want to overstay our welcome, Amelia. I suggest we move on.”

“I know, Marquis, you don’t need to say it again.” 

Marquis was tempted to call up the stairs and chide her, a gentle reminder that she could just call him Dad. Today had been a day of changes. Perhaps one of those changes would be his daughter finally accepting their relationship? 

The words didn’t make it out of his throat. No, pushing too fast would only scare her. For the time being, he would continue to be her Marquis, until she was ready to say otherwise. 

Straightening out his recently acquired suit, Marquis waited patiently as Amelia fumbled around upstairs, presumably trying to find something that she was both willing to wear and willing to take from its current owner. He still didn’t fully understand the code his daughter had imposed on herself. She needed constant little reminders that they were on the run, and that redistributing the belongings of others was an unfortunate side effect of such. 

At the very least, the residents had decent taste in menswear. Not quite bespoke quality, but a stroke of good fortune regardless. Cashmere, if he wasn’t mistaken.

He would have asked the owners themselves, but unfortunately they came down with a terrible case of unconsciousness after Amelia touched them. He couldn’t deny the tiny swell of pride as he watched the couple snore into the carpeted floors. His daughter wasn’t _fixed,_ but she had begun using her powers again over the last few weeks. A small improvement, but an improvement nonetheless. 

Their escape couldn’t have come at a better time. She was near catatonic after her arrival, and he’d been forced to break her further into something capable of withstanding the Birdcage’s many horrors. But now, free of the leers and veiled threats that had begun to dominate the cellblock, he hoped to see something of the young woman she had blossomed into. 

Her psyche was largely still a puzzle, even to him, but the odd glimmer that shone through gave him hope. There was strength there, buried deep, but beginning to be unearthed. A drive that pushed her to reach out and take what she wanted, regardless of the obstacles along the way.

Internally, he smiled at the thought. The same drive had led him to claim the Bay for his own. If the Brigade hadn’t interrupted at the wrong time, it likely would have led him to making that claim an uncontested one.

Her drive had led her willingly into the Birdcage, and now they were free. He could only wonder in anticipation of what she would do next. 

As she finally descended the stairs, Marquis held back a wince. Perhaps his thoughts had been premature. Amelia had clearly taken one look at the number of perfectly good dresses graciously provided by their sleeping hosts in what he assumed was a holiday home, and decided to grab the baggiest hoodie she could find instead. 

“A nice idea, but that won’t protect you from Dragon’s surveillance.” 

She hesitantly flipped the hood back down again. “Wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on the run before.” There was something in her tone that he couldn’t quite place. A degree of annoyance, but mixed with something else. Longing? Did she want to be recaptured? 

Marquis reached out to her, and for once, she didn’t flinch away. Delicately, he patted her on the shoulder. “It makes for quite the interesting challenge. But in all fairness, I believe that we’ll be rather low on the Protectorate’s wanted list.” 

He watched as Amelia gaped in shock. “Low? What I did… there’s no forgiveness for that. There’s no way that they’ll shunt me to the bottom of the list.” 

Another part of the problem. She had yet to divulge exactly what she had done that convinced her the Birdcage was the only way forwards. She’d mentioned that she’d unmade her sister due to love, but he had only the vaguest idea of what that could mean. Compounding the issue was the fact that she tended to exaggerate every slight flaw and fault, which didn’t help his mental picture of what she’d actually done. 

Had she committed an atrocity worse than that scumbag Acidbath? If not, then he didn’t see a reason to worry. And if she had… 

Daughters make mistakes. It’s the father’s job to help them learn from it. 

Marquis squeezed her shoulder, reassurance oozing from his tone. “My dear, by your own admission, you’ve only ever truly hurt one person.” 

“But it was-” 

“Irrelevant. Unless you used your power on the President?” He waited for her head to shake before continuing. “Then we’ll be near the bottom of the list. The public won’t care about our recapture, the pressure won’t be there for us to be taken back in.” 

“You almost ran an entire city.” 

“A city of a few hundred thousand, tucked away in a dingy corner of the north east. Do you really think the voices of those in Brockton will be heard over the din that Chicago, New York, or Los Angeles can make?” Marquis’ regular dealings with the other cell block leaders had given him a working theory for some of their destinations.

Her hair fell across her face as Amelia looked away, his hand slipping off her shoulder in the process.

“We’ll be careful, Amelia. A touch of worry will keep us from making careless errors, but with a bit of thought and some clever preparations, we’ll make it back to Brockton without seeing a single cape.” 

Amelia shook her head vehemently. “No. I don’t… I _can’t_ go back there.” 

For once, Marquis allowed his confusion to display. “Are you quite certain? There are still those in the Bay sympathetic to the Marche. I’ve resources there, personnel we can call upon. Not to mention that the Protectorate will be indisposed scouring the rest of the country for other inmates. We’ll be safe there.” 

She hugged her arms across her body, the sleeves of the hoody draping across her hands. “I can’t, Marquis. I know you want to see the old neighbourhood, but I can’t.” She turned those deep brown eyes on him, and Marquis could see himself reflected in those pools. 

He opened his mouth, a response already on his lips, but Marquis stopped himself. 

Why did he want to go back to the Bay? Nostalgia, certainly, as Amelia had surmised. A desire to rebuild what he’d lost. To be the dreaded and beloved _Marquis_ again, a cape adored and feared in equal measure, rather than a footnote in Brockton’s history. 

But when he looked at her, still hiding away inside overlarge clothes, afraid of herself and the world around her… He couldn’t just walk away from that. All those years spent in the Birdcage, and the one thing he’d truly missed had been Amelia. Her formative years, the milestones every father should be there to celebrate with his daughter, and he’d missed that. 

If only he’d been willing to abandon the Bay originally, he might have had a chance to be a real father. His damn pride had kept him in that city, and that same pride had led to his downfall. 

In that moment, Marquis made a choice. He couldn’t get those eleven years back. Couldn’t reclaim the memories he’d missed. But he could be there now, when she needed him. 

“…Okay.” 

Amelia glanced up, her brow furrowed in confusion.

“Okay. We won’t go back to the Bay. We’ll find somewhere new.” 

For the first time since they’d been reunited, Marquis watched his daughter smile.

“The world’s our oyster, Amelia. Where should we go first?” 

Her smile dimmed, and Marquis found himself mourning the loss of something so beautiful.

“There’s something I need to do. Something important, Marquis.” Amelia sucked in air, preparing herself to ask the question.

“Will you help me?” 

He nodded twice. This time, he’d make the right decisions.

“Always.” 

~~~ 

Fucking Christ, they just had to pick the one day he didn’t have a full stockpile of vials on him to open that hellhole. Wonderful, absolutely fucking wonderful.

Chris continued to complain to himself as his new legs ate up the miles. One second he’d been getting ready for a nap after shucking off his usual tools and work garments, the next he’d been face down in a ruddy snowbank. 

He’d grabbed the first of six emergency vials he kept on hand at all times, injected himself without thinking about it, and prayed that he hadn’t gotten the serums muddled up. ‘Lab Rat recaptured after turning self into a manatee’ wouldn’t be a particularly great capstone for his escape.

Thankfully, he’d picked the serum built for distance running. To an outside observer, he’d look like a particularly stringy elk, albeit one with human fingernails instead of hooves. And human teeth replacing elk teeth. 

It wasn’t his finest work, but in his defence, how the flying fuck was he supposed to know that today would be the day that their impenetrable super prison finally fell short? He’d have prepared something a little more exotic if somebody had warned him. Maybe put on a tie. 

Did he even own a tie anymore? New plan, acquire a tie. Can’t be a mad scientist without the right apparel. Better add a new lab coat to that plan as well. 

Wow, his thoughts were all over the damn place. Had that been a side effect of this batch? He really needed to start labelling the blasted things.

Labels! Another thing he could actually find now that he wasn’t trapped in that pit. Their Canadian overlord hadn’t seen fit to send a label maker with the supply drops. 

That bitch Glinda probably would have stolen it anyway. And who the hell names their kid Glinda in the first place? No wonder she’d turned out to be an annoying brat.

Chris skidded around a tree, narrowly avoiding the lowest branches. Running. That’s what he should be focusing on. Running as far as he could sounded like an excellent plan. Thinking could come later. When he wasn’t stuck in the body of an emaciated deer.

Just keep heading east-ish. He had old laboratories dotted across the country. He’d beeline straight for one of them, get himself set up, lay low for a bit, and go back to his research. That sounded good.

A clinking sound from a bag attached to his head drew Chris’ attention. Slowing to an unsteady canter, he removed it from his antler, and snuffled around inside. 

Thankfully, the vials all seemed to be in decent shape. If one of them had shattered now, he’d be up to his neck in troub- wait a moment. 

One empty vial. Four still filled, sloshing liquid beginning to settle inside them. 

…He could have sworn he had six vials in this bag? 

~~~ 

It had been deceptively easy to swipe a serum out from under that idiot’s oversized jaw, but String Theory was starting to regret it now. At first she’d been praising her ingenuity, feeling the wind pass through her feathers as she soared away from the mountains on the wings of a biological abomination. 

Then the serum had started to wear off, and the come down kicked in. 

“Euuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurgh.” Did that moron lace his work with cyanide? Felt like her insides were being torn apart by a horde of angry bobcats. Bobcats with chainsaw claws. 

She staggered through the field, thankful that the snow had been left far behind in her mad dash to freedom. There were flowers here, in shades of red and blue and yellow. 

She hated flowers. Everybody said how beautiful they were, but did they ever say how beautiful she was? Of course not.

“Urrrgh.” String Theory’s hand shot to her mouth as the acrid taste of bile began to rise up her throat. She stumbled into a thicket of thistles, only to redecorate them from dark green to a somewhat off yellow.

“I’m…gonna fuh…king kill Lab R-rat…” 

Why the hell did his tech have so many downsides? She made works of art despite the constraints of her own power, and her babies had never made anyone vomit after use. 

They did a whole bunch of other fun things instead. 

Wiping the edge of her mouth with the hem of her prison uniform, String Theory lurched onwards. Chris might be a pathetic rat beneath her notice, but she’d be damned if she didn’t pay him back for this insult. A quick blast from the F-Driver and it’d be goodnight Benjamin. 

…Chris. Goodnight Chris, his name was Chris, God damn it had that rodent not done any assurance tests on his serums? 

The moment her head stopped spinning, she was going to steal as much salvage as she could, build a giant gun with the words _Fuck Lab Rat_ carved into the side, point it squarely at the horse’s ass he called a face, and then laugh when she pulled the trigger.

Her foot caught on a loose root, and String Theory collapsed against the base of an old tree.

A single leaf fluttered down, coming to rest in front of her eyes. 

For a long moment, she lay still, listening to the wind. 

…Who was she kidding? The authorities would be on her trail immediately. Rebuilding things the way they used to be was a fantasy.

Delusions. That’s all they were. Her power had necessitated their creation. A hollow dream that nobody would stand against her, because it was the only way she could hope to succeed. That’d kept her going before she wound up in the Birdcage, the belief that she was untouchable. That the world would just bend over and take it when people heard her name.

They’d worsened inside the cage. Arrogance had given way to full-blown egomania. Her artificial daydream warped and twisted, inspired by the myriad of ideas that she couldn’t build. So many nights spent fantasizing about what she’d do in an ideal world, the vengeance she’d take, the legacy she’d construct… 

Now that she was free, it had all come tumbling down. There wouldn’t be a successor to the F-Driver. Other Tinkers wouldn’t risk helping a known escapee. Her power was too volatile for her to remain loose for long.

Glinda leaned backwards, and stared up at the deep blue sky. The clouds continued to drift lazily by. How long until a cape was up there, searching for her? 

Would they shoot to kill? She wouldn’t put it past them. They wouldn’t let her surrender, or work off her past mistakes. She’d invested everything into building her chaotic reputation, the woman who held the world ransom. By the time she realised that maybe things could have turned out differently, she was in too deep to stop.

It had been the only way to survive. Her power had forced her into a corner, and her delusions had kept it enjoyable. 

Her legs shook as she pushed off the ground, the lingering traces of the serum leaving her system.

She didn’t have a choice.

Exhaling, Glinda forced herself back into the box, and brought out the monster she’d become.

Another weapon, a new masterpiece. Something bigger than the F-Driver. She’d build it from scraps if she had to, but she’d build it.

And this time, the heroes would cower in fear. She’d be free, forever. 

String Theory settled into her trademark slouch, and sauntered away from the fields. There was work to be done, and as always, she was against the clock. 

~~~ 

“Stay close girls, and I promise we’ll make it through this.” Nicole raised her voice slightly, consoling those who’d remained loyal. She still wasn’t entirely certain how they had all made it out of prison, but it was a moot point in her eyes. An academic matter for the stuffed shirts to argue about. She had her priorities, and they were the ten women of varying ages, most of them from her old cellblock, that had gravitated back to her.

More than she’d feared, but less than she’d hoped. Her attempts to foster a spirit of camaraderie among the female inmates clearly fell far shorter than she would have liked. Had the others believed that running solo would give them a better chance at staying free? Had her reputation, misshapen by rumour and time, scared them into fleeing?

Another irrelevant matter. While it was disappointing to return to the world with a paltry handful of followers, she still wished good fortune to those that had decided to chart their own course.

She could only hope that nothing happened to them on their journeys. Despite her and the others being scattered seemingly at random across the Rockies, she had yet to encounter a male inmate.

Sheer coincidence, or had preparations been made to drop her closest to the other women? What would the others do if they found a man without her there to advise them? 

Shaking her head, Nicole picked her path down the hillside. It wouldn’t do to keep getting distracted. 

Carefully, she held out one arm behind her to guide the next woman along. A young redhead took her hand, and Nicole flashed a reassuring smile back. The top half of the teen’s head peeled away and a gaping maw lined with far too many jagged teeth attempted to return the gesture. 

She remembered this one. An inmate trapped in cell block C, under the predatory gaze of the Faerie Queen, where the more ‘damaged’ prisoners wound up.

Nicole gave her hand a squeeze as the girl edged past. Did she harbour a grudge against Glaistig? Against the men who had forced her into the Birdcage? The others who had found her, did they feel the same way? 

A consideration for the future, perhaps. When they were safe.

And then there was Nicole herself. Did she still desire vengeance? True, it had been an idle thought during her time in jail, but deep down, she knew she had no stomach for violence. She’d toyed with plans to avenge Alexandria, hunting down the four heroes and that traitorous bug child who claimed responsibility for her death, but dismissed the idea before their escape.

Her responsibility had always been to her girls. That had been her mistake, before. She didn’t want to be a figurehead, to have people corrupt her words and assign false meaning to her teachings. She’d simply desired a world where her girls were safe.

As she reached back to help the next escapee down the hill, Nicole smiled. No more cult of Lustrum. No more excuses for the girls who refused to accept responsibility for their violent outbursts. She wouldn’t be their scapegoat any longer. 

But those were tomorrow’s ideas. For today, she’d settle for keeping her little herd safe and sound. 

~~~ 

A contract is a sacred thing. Hallowed, above all else. Those who forswore their oaths and shattered contracts were the lowest wretches in this great show. 

Many moons ago, a young girl had struck a contract with the pretenders who fancied themselves lords. Mere stagehands, barely worth the fae’s notice. 

One such stagehand, little more than a prop claiming to be cunning beyond measure, had crafted their contract. Words emboldened with power and form. 

They had thought her simple. That the promise of a great hall under the mountain would satisfy the fae. The celebrations were innumerable when she fell for their ruse. 

Had they never once considered that they had handed her the keys to the very kingdom she desired? 

Hosts were brought from far and wide, their mortal forms dwarfed by the glory of the actors they struggled to contain. Individuals she would not have hoped to meet were delivered to her very doorstep. The most imaginative of the actors, sent straight to her waiting arms.

When she watched them dancing together, she grew faint. It was beautiful beyond comprehension, and yet it remained a mere taste of the grand play.

She had been content to wait, secure in the knowledge that she could witness those in her domain until the end. 

Then the contract had been broken. 

Now the mountain was empty. The actors scattered, the set aflame, and the audience panicked.

They had broken their word. And to a faerie, their word is their bond. 

The ever-present wind fell silent. 

She turned her eyes away from the mountain, and watched the world beneath her.

Reparations must be made. The contract would be fulfilled.

And after that?

Her lips quirked upwards in a facsimile of a smile. 

The show must go on. 


	3. Puppeteers

Twenty-five years on, and the halls remained identical to the day I’d first been brought here. Unblemished white tiles lined the floor, with matching paint along the walls. Foreboding and reassuring in equal measure.

Others had described the long corridors feeling akin to a hospital, which made sense in more ways than one.

My sleeve swept to the side as the air stirred.

“No. I remember the way.” And I wasn’t in the mood to keep the Custodian entertained.

Endless doors passed by in a blur as I marched towards my destination. It would take years for a regular man to fully chart the depths of this fortress alone, let alone the others tucked away on different Earths.

Admittedly the Doctor had claimed that many of those facilities were now decoys, emptied after the Simurgh had broken one open across Wisconsin, but that knowledge provided little comfort. I owed these people my life, but the moment I was no longer useful, they would not hesitate to discard me.

It had seemed like such a good bargain at the time. Anything to get out of the chair.

Slowing to a stop, I rapped my knuckles against a door that appeared no different to any of its counterparts. A moment later it opened inwards, pulled by a man wearing a blue button-down shirt, thin rimmed glasses, and grey slacks.

“Good of you to join us.” The Number Man’s tone went ignored as I brushed past him into a conference room. It matched the décor of the halls, identical white paint covering the surfaces, with a simple round table in the middle. Eight chairs sat around the circle, but only one was occupied. The Number Man elected to stand as he resumed typing away at something on a tablet, while the only filled seat was taken by the woman I came here to see. She looked up from the papers lining her side of the table, and gave me a tight smile.

"Eidolon. A pleasure to see you again.” Doctor Mother’s voice managed to be kindly at all the wrong times.

I didn’t indulge her with pleasantries. “Are we responsible for this?”

“I assume you’re referring to the incident at the Baumann-”

“Of course I’m referring to the Birdcage. Are we responsible for this?”

She remained calm and unruffled. “No.”

Tiny lines burst from her form as she spoke, similar to audio waves being viewed through a visualizer. The closest thing to a lie detector that my agent had given me for this conversation.

“You must admit the timing is suspicious.”

She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “Certainly. But if we were to pull the strings that opened the Birdcage, we would have done it before Alexandria’s mishap, as a way to restate the importance of the Triumvirate to this new Protectorate.”

Much to my annoyance, her wavelength remained peaceful.

“So this really isn’t your work?” It was painfully obvious to tell what I was doing, but the Doctor was used to me verifying her claims with my own abilities.

Sighing, she went back to her notes. “No Eidolon, to the best of my knowledge, this wasn’t us. I didn’t give the order to open the Birdcage, and Kurt is presumably in the same boat.”

No spikes from the wavelength. She was telling the truth.

I tilted my head towards the Number Man, who didn’t look up from his screen. “Before you ask, I had no hand in this.”

His wavelength remained similarly still.

Time for the elephant in the room.

“And Contessa?”

“Dealing with the aftermath of Echidna. Too many people are trying to blow the whistle on what happened, especially after the events of last week. We agreed that the public cannot know the truth, it would undermine everything we've worked towards.”

“And you’re cer-”

Traces of exasperation flashed through the Doctor’s eyes. “Yes, I’m quite certain. If Contessa was here, we wouldn’t have been blindsided in such a spectacular manner.”

Grudgingly, I accepted her point. Everybody had been caught unawares by the breakout. Damn it all. If Cauldron had been behind the escape then I could have influenced the resultant chaos to a degree.

Instead, I’d be going into this just as unprepared as the rest of the world.

“I trust you have an idea about who is responsible for this, at the very least?”

“Several. None of them verified, and each one brings a host of complications.” The Doctor continued sorting her papers, scribbling down notes on a few pages.

“How many?” A few immediately sprung to mind. Escape artists trying to rescue an inmate, or a determined villain with an enmity against one of the prisoners.

“Twenty-seven thousand, three hundred and nineteen possibilities as of this moment.” Number Man rattled off the digits, his fingers flying over the tablet. “The majority of those held inside the prison had some form of support structure on the outside. Friends, family, zealous minions, cape partners, some even have dedicated fans crying out for their release.”

“We already placed the majority of them fairly far down the list of possible culprits. They have motive, but most don’t have the means.” Doctor Mother shot a look at the Number Man, clearly not the first time she’d reminded him of that caveat.

“Low, but not outside the realm of possibility. Not enough information to discount them entirely. A recent trigger with the right powerset could be behind this.” Number Man countered, the Doctor looking chagrined at his suggestion.

Reluctantly, he added a concession. “Although it would be unheard of for an individual to manage something on this scale. A group would be far more likely.”

“Then who is behind this?” I repeated, impatience seeping into my voice.

This time it was the Doctor’s turn to sound reluctant. “We don’t know. A dedicated effort from the inmates themselves to break out? Some misguided heroes drowning in power and moralism? We’ve identified a minimum of a dozen groups in the US alone that could potentially have the means to break people out, be it for rescue or revenge.”

The Number Man followed the train of thought. “Or it could be international. The CUI has the capability to force the Birdcage open. Gesellschaft could likely make an attempt, although I’d have doubts about their success. Perhaps it’s not even a group located on Bet.”

“Another Haywire?” I interjected, before he could start theorising on probabilities again.

“Certainly possible. Or a repeat of the incident in Indonesia.”

The Doctor finished writing on a slip of paper, turning her attention to the next and sliding the first haphazardly across the desk. An invisible force caught it before it fell off the table, neatly stacking the paper atop another group of files.

“Most of our remaining operatives have been pulled back to ensure we don’t see a repeat of the breakout happening here,” Doctor Mother gestured downwards with her free hand, “but I’ve assigned the few we have left in the field to begin tracking the most likely suspects.”

“Not sending for Contessa?” I probed, carefully watching the visualiser lines around her.

“Not unless things get worse. She’s too crucial in preventing the flurry of information leaks we’re facing.”

“I’d say things are already worse. We could use her right now.”

The Doctor shook her pen, the ink evidently running dry. A gust of wind blew another straight into her lap. “In the last three weeks, there have been no less than twenty-six attempts to tell the world everything Echidna revealed. Customers who got cold feet, a few individuals who fought in Brockton trying their luck, as well as a mildly irritating mercenary group that insists on harassing our past associates.”

Another slip of paper flew on wings of air.

“Of those twenty-six, five were missed completely by our information network. If Contessa hadn’t been so enterprising, we would find ourselves in a considerably weaker position than we are in right now.” Deciding the conversation was at an end, she turned back to the few remaining papers in front of her.

She hadn’t told any lies that I could detect, yet the truth did little to put me at ease.

I parcelled those concerns up and shoved them aside. Cauldron would inevitably find the ones responsible. There’d be time for further questions later, when I wasn’t needed elsewhere.

“I’m going to help.” I let the thought hang in the air, expecting the Doctor to try and talk me out of it.

“We assumed as much. I’d rather you didn’t wear your powers down any further, but we need to do something to get a handle on this situation. All I ask is that you don’t overcommit, and that you stop once the heroes have the breakout under a measure of control.”

I exhaled a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “Deal.”

She placed the last of her papers down in a stack, before beckoning me to follow her. “I took the liberty of preparing an emergency vial. Not really a fan of delivering another booster shot with an Endbringer on the horizon, but needs must.”

The door opened as I began removing my mask, not leading back to the hallway I’d entered from, but to a separate room entirely. Tiny glimmers from the edge of the frame drew my eye, but I’d long grown used to Doormaker’s presence.

A desk of white marble with an accompanying white leather chair faced me, along with a pair of sturdy, cushioned chairs aimed towards the desk. One of the Doctor’s public offices, where she’d administer the vials to those willing to buy.

She didn’t waste time, striding behind the desk and rummaging around inside its drawers. I sank into one of the cushioned chairs, placing my mask on the floor by my legs.

Moments later, the Doctor pulled out a plastic case, lined with foam. My sleeve was already rolled up.

“I trust you remember our procedures for this?”

I nodded, forcing myself to relax. The Doctor settled down in the chair next to mine, adjusting a syringe. I closed my eyes, tensed my arm, and waited for the pinprick to scratch that old itch.

Without ceremony, she made the injection, the same way she had dozens of times before.

I savoured the feeling as the vial coursed through my body. Like taking a gulp of air after spending too long underwater. I discarded the three powers in my mind, and took hold of a new trio, a contented smile on my face as they reached their full potential far faster than their predecessors.

Enhanced cold reading, of those around me. I lay back and watched the lines in Doctor Mother’s face, the way she shifted to place the injection equipment back into its foam-lined case. No trace that she was concealing anything from me.

Emotional detection. Genuine shock, quickly muted. Apprehension. A tinge of frustration, at the continued setback of Cauldron’s efforts. She hadn’t been happy. Still wasn’t, but she was masking it better now.

A Breaker form, turning me into solid rock. Strength and durability, enough that I could stop the Doctor if she had been lying, and walk away unhindered by the others.

This, _this_ was what I was supposed to be. Humanity’s trump card, the man who had a power for every situation.

For a single, brilliant moment, I felt like I could live up to the expectation.

All too soon, reality set in. I was forced back underwater, the memory of that sweet gulp of air doing all it could to keep me going. How long would it be before my next shot? How many people would I fail until then, forced to watch as my abilities dwindled and my options disappeared?

Their job done, I discarded the Thinker powers, and enjoyed a final moment of peace before diving head first into the fight.

Swiping my helmet off the floor, I rose out of the comfortable chair, wincing as my knee made an audible _crack_. Ah, the wonders of middle age.

With one hand I refastened my helmet, and gestured towards the door with the other. It flew inwards with a telekinetic pull.

“Ahem.”

The Doctor remained seated, a blood pressure pump in her hands.

With some reluctance, I sat back down in the chair.

Twenty minutes and a barrage of tests later, I was stepping through one of Doormaker’s portals into the chilly Canadian air. The Doctor always insisted on a series of health tests after each booster, on the off chance that the contents had disagreed with my body.

It wouldn’t do to lose the mighty Eidolon to a bad drink.

Mighty Eidolon. Wind whistled past, sending my cloak billowing as I snorted at the memory. A newspaper headline from years ago, when I’d used super-strength to wrestle a villain into submission. Numerous edited images followed, often dressing up the pair of us in wrestling leotards.

Thinking back, the power I’d used then wasn’t entirely dissimilar to the one I was using now.

A flip of the mental switch, and the Breaker form activated.

Chunks of earth broke away as I impacted the ground, showering the nearby officers with flakes of dirt. They didn’t react. You didn’t get sent to work here if a man falling from the sky left you shaken.

A few shifted slightly as I stepped out of the small crater, but still saluted as I strode past. Must be further down the food chain. The higher ups barely bothered to look me in the eye anymore. Still, the rank-and-file types did their jobs, and they did them well, despite being left out in the cold.

Behind the wall of officers toting containment foam grenade launchers sat my destination. If the Houston PRT building was designed like a luxury hotel, then this place was built to be a fortified compound.

Tinkertech polymers. Wrought iron gates. Bunkers constructed to withstand assaults from higher-level Blasters and Brutes. Chain link fences surrounded the area, topped with barbed wire. Watchtowers on each corner, manned at all hours of the day. Turrets, both conventional and cape made, swivelled around to track me as I walked onwards.

People tended to forget that the Parahuman Response Team, first and foremost, was a paramilitary organisation.

Here, they remembered.

PRT Department Zero. Designed in secret to watch over the Birdcage.

I’d hoped we would never need to use it. Reality had other ideas.


	4. Department Zero

As I approached the front gate, a PRT officer waved me over to the side. His voice was muffled by the heavy armour, but I could make out the gist.

“Need to check it’s actually you before heading in. Would you mind waiting here until we can get verification?”

I gave him a flat look, before manifesting electricity from my fingertips. The electricity was replaced by solid rock, then my hand disappeared entirely, before reforming out of a cloud of gas.

“…Go right ahead, sir.”

I swept past him, through the security checkpoint, towards one of several squat grey structures. The nerve centre of PRT Department Zero.

Located deep within Vanderhoof, this compound was classified at the highest levels. Built to keep watch on the Birdcage, it had originally been assembled shortly after the super prison became operational, only to fall out of use once Dragon had been instated as the warden. A skeleton crew kept the place running on the off chance that something went wrong though.

Another of Rebecca’s ideas that came in handy when we most needed them. A part of me had always envied her incredible foresight.

She’d also been responsible for its cover story. Publicly, the world believed the Birdcage to be under the jurisdiction of the Vancouver PRT. Most didn’t look beyond that fact. Vancouver’s department was one of the largest in the organisation, so naturally the Birdcage would go to them.

In reality, Vancouver’s branch was swamped with handling Canada’s West Coast, in addition to catching the flood of villains that constantly moved over the border. Too many of them still followed the ideas peddled by old movies, that the moment they crossed the border they’d be free from all charges. Giving them the Birdcage would have been the straw that broke the camel’s back, but the world didn’t need to know that. Zero’s secrecy had been secured, Vancouver’s team received a hefty prestige boost, and anyone attacking the latter to get at the prison would find themselves swiftly disappointed. A win all around.

Already, a sizeable group of capes were congregating at the far end of the compound, talking quietly among themselves. Teleporters appeared sporadically to drop off another handful, before vanishing once more. A slow build-up. Mass teleportation powers had always been rare, and we’d lost too many good capes to manage the rapid deployment of yesteryear.

Some, the less muscular ones, or the ones with suits that prioritised form over function, were steadily disappearing inside a couple of the squat buildings that filled the compound. An impromptu Think Tank, smaller than our Watchdog but concentrated on a single task rather than the flood of cases its bigger brother dealt with.

On the whole, the compound didn’t much resemble the simple monitoring outpost it had originally started life as. Thankfully. This fully-fledged staging ground for heroes would be far more beneficial. I vaguely recalled that particular improvement being made after Behemoth came far too close to the prison back in... when had that been? All those battles blended together before too long.

Another pair of officers saluted as I headed into the building they were guarding. They locked the door behind me, and I found myself in a small square room, surrounding by lead, and a locked door at the far end. Detonate a bomb in here, and nobody outside would even hear it. Alternatively, fail the test, and the door would be welded shut until an entire team of heroes came to drag you out.

Impatiently, I waited as red lights scanned across my body. Hundreds of metrics were being taken with every sweep. There were the obvious ones, checking body temperature, height, or other physical measurements. Then there were the more subtle tests, being run by a social Thinker hidden behind…

I glanced to the right. _That_ panel. They’d be observing the harder to notice tells, comparing my posture and the like to videos on file.

Redundancy was key for successful Master-Stranger protocols, but they were a pain to go through so often.

Long seconds passed before a green light went on above the far door, followed by the clunk of mechanisms retracting the lock. Another PRT soldier was waiting on the other side. This one wasn’t armed with a foam dispenser, but a rather more lethal tinkertech rifle. He gestured for me to follow him, and for the second time that day, I found myself marching down an endless parade of corridors.

My escort knocked three times on a double door at the end of a hall, opening it a crack as I slipped into the back of a war room. A single large table dominated the centre of the space, displaying a virtual three-dimensional model of the Rocky Mountains and their surrounding area. Computers lined the room’s edges, unmanned but still scrolling through the information of various Birdcage escapees. A veritable wall of tablets had been stood upright along the central table, each one showing the face of a major PRT Director.

Twelve individuals stood shoulder to shoulder in the cramped space, most of them watching the three-dimensional map.

Chevalier, in his silver and gold armour, had taken up position at the head of the table. On his right stood two heroes in deep green power armour, one silent and still, the other arguing with Chevalier about something on the map. Dragon and Defiant.

Next to them were two women in deep conversation with one of the Directors via their video call. I recognised Rime from the fur-rimmed collar on her suit. The other took me a moment to place, but the painted half-mask and lantern resting across their shoulder eventually clued me in to Revel.

The person on their right was already glaring at me as I entered, although I wasn’t entirely sure if they had an axe to grind with me personally, or if that was just how they always looked. The upper half of her face was covered in an ashen grey mask, with a matching dress that had slits on the side. I inclined my head to Cinereal, and she didn’t return the gesture.

Past her were two men, bickering furiously about the security at Department Zero. A dark-skinned man wearing a kevlar vest over a three-piece suit had his arms crossed, answering each comment with a short and sharp remark. Director Irons, the leader of Department Zero. His verbal sparring partner wore a ‘classic’ hero costume; padded at the joints for extra protection, not quite skin tight, but which clung closely enough to see the outlines of his muscles. A decal of a pointed tower wound its way up his back, following his spine. Spire, head of San Diego’s Protectorate.

Narwhal was on their right, elbows resting on the table as she pored over the available information. The forcefields composing her costume wavered slightly with each new sentence. A man in goat’s head helm was alternating between studying information on his tablet and sneaking glances at her.

I shook my head at Satyrical’s display. No longer my problem.

The final two members of the circle were surprises. The first was clearly a cape, dressed in a flowing green robe and stylised mask that left her mouth uncovered. At first glance, the robe looked to be a single solid object, but on closer inspection, it was actually made of thousands of interconnecting parts. It took a moment, but eventually the name Gestalt began to tug at my memories. The captain of the Edmonton Protectorate. Made sense she’d be here; it was one of the closest branches to Vanderhoof.

The other individual was a man that repulsed me to see. Much like Director Irons, he was dark skinned and wearing a suit. Unlike the Director, he had a goatee, a reputation for backroom deals, and had embedded himself so deeply into the PRT that even if his parahuman powers were made public knowledge, he’d still find some way to hang onto his job. Mr. Keene. Or Morgan, to his friends.

He went by Mr. Keene most of the time.

A few of those gathered here glanced up as I settled into the back of the room, prompting a wave of whispers to wash over them.

“Apologies for my late arrival.” I bowed my head slightly. The reaction was mixed. Half the room seemed heartened by my entrance, while the others continued to mutter. Thankfully, I had a good grasp on most of those present. They were the pragmatic sort who wouldn’t turn away help in an emergency.

I hoped.

The knight at the head of the table broke the tense atmosphere. “Eidolon. We were expecting you to arrive with the Houston team.”

In truth, I’d slipped away from Exalt at the first opportunity. Discovering the possible extent of Cauldron’s involvement in this was more important than waiting around for him. Perhaps that had been hasty. Despite stopping for a booster shot, I was still here long before the Houston contingent.

“Breaker ability. No room for passengers.” Not technically a lie, but it did omit a few details. When had it become so easy to bend the truth to those who risked their lives to save the world?

Defiant was staring at me oddly, but Chevalier spoke before he could get a word in. “Alright. We’ll have to start without them.” He sounded tired.

He looked up suddenly, all traces of fatigue gone from his tone, as his metal helmet locked eyes with my opaque one. “And I trust you’ll be willing to follow orders?”

I let a small smile creep up onto my face. He’d grown so much from that kid running around declaring vengeance on thugs, armed with a whiffle bat. He really was the man for the job. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m used to following orders.”

Spire and Rime looked away in disgust. I’d been referring to Legend, but… damn it. They’d probably assumed I was talking about Cauldron.

Thankfully, Chevalier cleared his throat and stood up straight before I could dig my own grave any deeper. “If Houston won’t be here in time, then we’ll begin.” The monitor behind him crackled to life, showing a satellite feed of the Rocky Mountains.

“Forty-seven minutes ago, we experienced the worst prison break ever seen on US soil.” A list of names began to filter across the bottom of the screen. “At last count, six hundred and eighty-four individuals were incarcerated inside the Birdcage. Those men and women are now loose across the continental United States.”

He hadn’t bothered to pause for effect. Straight to the point, as always.

Chevalier clicked a button on his end of the table, and the satellite feed cut to a heavily pixelated image, distorted by white smears. “Just to make things worse, a snowstorm had been blowing over the Rocky Mountains, and by extension the Birdcage, for the last two days. It only recently cleared. Our eyes in the sky were blind when the breakout occurred. We’re relying on the Think Tank to provide intelligence on the event, but it’s slow going.”

He gestured to his right, towards Defiant and Dragon. “At the same time, a virus was introduced to some of the systems dedicated to monitoring the Birdcage. All internal cameras were wiped of their recordings for the past forty-eight hours. We do not believe this to be a coincidence.”

“The running theory is that mercenary group known as the Dragonslayers are responsible.” The silent green suit hung their head at the mention of the name. “They have repeatedly harassed and assaulted Dragon, and our working assumption is that their virus was designed specifically to navigate around her safeguards. She was caught as unaware as the rest of us.” Chevalier’s voice turned softer towards the end. Comforting the warden?

“I’ve already dispatched some of our more dedicatedmembers towards retrieving the Dragonslayers.” Meaning they’d be lucky to turn up without any broken bones. “They’ll be able to fill us in on how they opened the cage. In the interim, our job is to recapture as many of the inmates as possible.”

One of the tablets on the table piped up. “We’re supposed to just move on from this? Chevalier, I fail to see how Dragon could allow this to occur in the first place. A breakout of this scale, who is to say that she didn’t orchestrate it herself?” A shrill voice. Director Wilkins, from New York. Woman with all the charm of a claymore.

All heads turned towards Dragon, who made no move to respond. Defiant answered for her instead.

“Dragon’s record is exemplary. Baseless accusation will get us nowhere.”

“I’d rather hear it from her, Defiant.” Something shifted in his body language as New York’s Director spat back.

“Unfortunately, Dragon’s technology was badly damaged during a recent, PRT-sanctioned, mission to Brockton Bay. She can’t talk.” I didn’t miss the emphasis he placed on PRT. He blamed the Directors for that entire snafu. I didn’t disagree.

If they hadn’t pushed so hard for the bug girl to be arrested, maybe Rebecca would still be here.

“She and I have both been over her systems, and we think that the Dragonslayers exploited a vulnerability that came to light after the damage her tech received in the Bay.” Laying the blame for the breakout squarely on the PRT's doorstep? Brave, but reckless. If he still had a career worth protecting, I imagined he would have stayed quiet.

Director Wilkins scoffed. “You think that Skitter’s arrest is what led to the escape? Forgive me Defiant, but that’s quite the leap of logic.

“If Saint could have opened the prison at any time, then they would have done it before now. The only way this all adds up is if they needed a vulnerability in the systems for their virus to exploit. Then the PRT went and created one by forcing Dragon into a no-win situation.”

“You’re claiming Dragon’s inability to speak is linked to the Birdcage’s security? I might not know much about how her technology works, but that’s preposterous.”

“Given the PRT’s recent position I wouldn’t be surprised if you assisted Saint-”

“Enough.” Chevalier didn’t raise his voice, but silence fell regardless. Dragon had her hand on Defiant’s shoulder, pulling him back from the table. Wilkins looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. I chewed on his words for a moment. Accusing someone of assisting Saint right now was a bold claim, but nobody was moving to refute it. Had the Directors been dealing under the table when I wasn’t watching?

“Assigning blame gets us nowhere. For now, we continue with the assumption that the Dragonslayers are behind this. If that’s proven wrong in the future, then we’ll arrest whoever really was responsible. Until then, we’re all that stands between an army of psychopaths from running rampant across the country, so I would appreciate it if we could knock it off with the infighting already.” Chevalier looked at each of us in turn as he spoke.

Another tablet broke the silence, once it was clear nobody else would start an argument. “We trust you have a plan in mind, Chevalier. How do we go about this?” If I wasn’t mistaken, that sounded like Director Armstrong. The Boston contingent must still be en-route.

Chevalier gladly accepted the opening, clicking another button on the table. Clumps of red lights appeared in a haphazard manner across a section of the mountain range.

“For now, we’re on containment. Set up a net, catch as many of the inmates as we can before they make it out of the immediate area. A few of our fast responders have already apprehended a handful of escapees, which gives us a rough idea of where the rest should be.” Eight of the lights dimmed in response, marking a rough circle around the edge of the red clump.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it? Why would the Dragonslayers spread them out like that?” Revel questioned, as Chevalier picked up his own tablet and swiped through a few screens.

“The Think Tank sent over their initial thoughts a few moments ago, and they believe that some form of faulty mass teleportation is responsible,” Chevalier read aloud, the clumps of red light beginning to disperse as he spoke. “They’re claiming that Saint had past dealings with a Tinker collective known as Toybox. One of their members was able to produce teleport-capable technology, but considering the group has since been dissolved, the purchased technology went without proper maintenance and this spread of inmates is the result.”

Dissolved. That was certainly one way to put it. Massacred would be another.

Placating, Chevalier added, “I’ve already tasked the Think Tank with investigating further while we handle the immediate situation, but for the time being, this is the best explanation we’ve got for how almost seven hundred people were successfully moved out of the most secure prison in the world, only to wind up scattered across roughly a hundred miles of the Rocky Mountains afterwards.”

Another button push, and white lights appeared in a ring around a stretch of the mountains, including the section crossing the U.S.-Canadian border. The proposed defensive line. Murmurs went around the table.

“We don’t have enough guys to pull that off,” Satyrical was shaking his head at the model, “not without tapping the more problematic cities.”

Cinereal spoke, her voice cold and calculating. “It will work.”

“Listen Ashy, if we start pulling guys out of Miami and Seattle for this then we’re just gonna end up with another Gallup situation.”

“One hundred miles is manageable. We can make it work.”

“They were spread across a hundred miles nearly an _hour_ ago. They’ll have run since then. It’d be hard enough to contain them if they were all in one place, but spread out like they are? That ain’t possible.”

The pair began to bicker, and I watched from the side-lines. The new Protectorate, and they were falling apart at the sight of their first major crisis. Then again, we hadn’t done much better in the early days. Perhaps they’d work through the issues, given time.

Or perhaps the world would end before we reached that point.

Chevalier had retaken control of the conversation by the time I tuned back in.

“This is the plan we’re going with. We can hash out something more detailed later, but for the immediate crisis, this will do.” Satyrical clearly wasn’t happy with that, a frustrated exhalation coming from his helmet.

The white ring began to change colour in places, whole segments cycling through the colour spectrum until settling on a hue that wasn’t already in use.

“You’ll each be working with the people you’re most familiar with. We’ve crunched the numbers, and there were too many Masters and Strangers inside the cage for anything else to be effective. Cinereal?”

Atlanta’s Protectorate leader looked up at the mention of her name. “You’ll be taking the south-west.” The indicated section of the ring glowed dark grey. “I’ll be sending other teams to link up with yours once they arrive.”

“Done.”

“Good. Satyrical, you and the Vegas team are taking the south.” Another glow, this time brown in colour.

The goat helm bobbed up and down. “I mean, my people will appreciate a chance to get out of the city. Things haven’t exactly been peaceful there. But I ain’t got the guys to patrol that entire section.” 

I stifled a snort. Satyrical, master of the understatement. One of his teammates had shot a politician less than a week ago, and the entire team had been reeling. Doctor Mother had been making noises about extracting Pretender at some point, but evidently that had gone on the back-burner while we dealt with this.

“Armstrong’s group can reinforce yours, once they arrive.”

Satyrical glanced down at one of the free-standing tablets. The Director answered the unasked question. “We’ve lost a few capes due to recent events, but the city itself is relatively stable. We can spare the manpower.”

The next segment of the circle lit up, in gold and silver. Unsurprisingly, it was the biggest of the segments. Chevalier’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. “I’ll be leading the New York branches in securing the east and south-eastern areas. Revel’s group will be working shifts with us, as soon as the rest of the Chicago team arrives.”

Revel shifted her lantern from one shoulder to the other, but didn’t say a word.

“Spire, San Diego will be contributing the bulk of their capes towards the western segment. You’ll be collaborating with Gestalt and the Edmonton branch.”

Spire seemed resigned to the order. After Echidna, more heroes had walked away from his team than most of the other departments, but San Diego was one of the most peaceful locations in the country anyway. He probably didn’t want to risk losing anyone else.

“We’ll be leaving the north and north-west to those acclimatised to the conditions.” Chevalier inclined his head towards Narwhal, who nodded in return, her horn wavering. The Guild and the rest of the Canadian Protectorate clearly had that in hand.

“Which just leaves the north-east end. Dragon and her suits were going to be our defensive line there, but given recent complaints,” Chevalier deliberately did not look at Director Wilkins, “I’ll be sending teams from some of our other cities to support her.”

The previously white ring was now a circle of colour. An admittedly thin circle. Satyrical had been right. Even with capes pouring in from across the country, we couldn’t match the almost seven hundred villains that had been in the Birdcage. Not without leaving a number of cities dangerously shorthanded.

“Rime,” The Protectorate’s newest second in command was already standing at attention, “you’ll be commanding the rapid-response teams from here. Director Irons has agreed to commit Department Zero’s full suite of resources to the task. L.A. is relatively stable, so pull as many of your people out as you can. Keep them coordinated, and bring them down hard on any prisoners that the patrol and containment teams turn up.”

Her facial expression betrayed no emotion, but I’d be surprised if she wasn’t enjoying the opportunity to go all out. The coloured circle drained slightly more, as a new blue indicator filled up to the side.

Unfortunately, Mr. Keene chose that moment to remind everybody that he existed.

“If I may, I believe I have a solution to our lack of defensive capes.”

“No.”

“Chevalier, with all due respect-”

“I said no. I know what you’re going to suggest, and it would undermine everything we’re trying to build here.”

“Let him speak.” The tablet closest to the head of the table boomed with an authoritative tone. West. The new Chief Director.

Mr. Keene tapped away at his own tablet, his eyes darting across the information on screen. “My fellow cape liaisons and I have been inundated with offers of assistance from international teams. If we were to accept their help, the _cracks_ in our defence could be shored up.”

There were more cracks than there were capes, but Chevalier remained unmoved.

“No. This is our problem, the first major problem that our new Protectorate has had to face. We can’t go running to other countries for help. It would shatter any faith the population had in us.”

“At least let them aid in recapturing the high-priority inmates. We’ve received assistance offers from…” I watched the gears turn in his head as he added them up, “thirty-three nations. Those are just the ones invested in stopping String Theory.”

“No.”

“The King’s Men have already mobilised and are awaiting permission to search for Teacher, the Caperoos are in an uproar over Gavel, the Meisters have made their position on Glaistig Uaine's continued freedom very clear... I could go on.”

“It’s still a no. We need to handle this ourselves.” Chevalier’s tone brokered no argument.

My eyes flitted over those assembled here. The capes had adopted familiar expressions of grim determination, with the exception of Dragon who was still motionless. A few of the teleconferenced Directors were shifting uneasily. Chief Director West eventually broke the silence.

“On this occasion, I agree wholeheartedly with Chevalier. The situation is chaotic enough without allowing dozens of foreign teams into the mix. To say nothing of what it would do to the collective reputation of both the PRT and America. We need a genuine win after all that's happened, and we can't sell one of those if the rest of the world was holding our hand through this.”

Mr. Keene didn’t seem put out in the least by the blunt refusal. Another swipe along his tablet, and he was ready with a second proposal.

“Very well sir. If that’s the case, then may I suggest some of the more domestic offers of support we’ve received?”

“Independent heroes?” Revel pointed to the blue splotch on the map. “Either use them to bulk up Rime’s group or have them hold down the fort back home.” A round of nods met her suggestion. Mr. Keene shifted slightly in annoyance.

“Be that as it may, I was actually referring to the offers from some less reputable capes. We’ve received communications from a number of villainous groups for that purpose.”

Would they accept Cauldron’s help, if I offered it? The new team was all about forging a darker, edgier Protectorate that worked with those seen as villains. Cauldron’s hands were coated in blood, I wouldn’t deny that, but their cause was as noble as they came. As Mr. Keene began rattling off the groups he’d been contacted by, I couldn’t help but notice that all of them committed their atrocities for pleasure, personal gain, or a measure of power. Why allow their cooperation, but deny the group who had worked to save the Earth ever since parahumans first appeared? 

Another question that I’d never get a straight answer to. Until they knew about Scion, nobody here would be able to make an informed conclusion.

“Surprised they agreed so quickly,” Rime thought aloud, although her sentiment was clearly mirrored by a number around the table.

“Self-preservation. Most of the inmates have a vendetta or two. Wouldn’t be surprised if some went looking for a grudge match against old enemies. They want the threats gone as quickly as we do.” Director Irons chimed in, hand tapping away at his chin.

The interruption over, Mr. Keene returned to his list as I remained silent. “Several branches of the Elite, specifically those on the West Coast.”

“Satyr, opinion?” Chevalier looked between the two men as Satyrical rubbed the back of his head.

“Probably worth getting them on board. They’ll ask for favours afters, but they’ll play ball. ‘Specially if we’re right about one of the priority captures going after their upper management.”

Mr. Keene nodded assent. “I’ll make preparations. The Adepts?”

Satyrical took the reins, guiding the conversation in a back and forth with the liaison. “No way. Not enough firepower, too used to screwing around, and rumour is that one of the inmates had a relationship with Epoch before she got thrown in the slammer.”

“Tuurngait?”

“Too unpredictable.”

“The Undersiders and the Ambassadors?”

So they weren’t just talking a big game when their ex-leader tried to build bridges.

Satyrical gave his seal of approval. “Less likely to stab us in the back than some of the others.”

A digital twang sounded as somebody on the other end of the video call cleared their throat. The Chief Director’s tone was less than pleased.

“While we understand that the thrust of this new Protectorate of yours was to show cooperation between the two sides of the cape community, the public is slow to accept change. If you’re going to work with villains, you’ll keep it quiet. Everything behind closed doors.”

“That defeats the whole purpose. We founded this new Protectorate on a message of transparency and accountability.” Chevalier’s rebuttal fell on deaf ears.

“If you want our continued support, Chevalier, you’ll ensure that John and Jane Public don’t see you working with known criminals. If this were an Endbringer engagement, maybe the rules could be bent, but until that becomes the case, you’ll work within our guidelines."

Chevalier wasn’t allowed a chance to answer as West steamrolled the conversation.

“It’s bad enough that we have to inform the President that such a monumental failure of the prison system occurred on our watch. To then tell him that our manpower is so limited that we require villains to help catch other villains would damage the PRT irreparably. Keep it quiet, or Congress will start sticking their nose in.”

With that, the Chief Director signed off, his tablet going dark. The other Directors signed off shortly thereafter, their leader having set the status quo. A heavy silence settled over the table.

“Fucker.”

Nobody admonished Satyrical.

A steady rhythm of metal striking metal echoed out as Chevalier drummed his gauntleted fingers against the table.

“Alright. Consider this a standing order.” Chevalier pushed himself upright, addressing the group as a whole.

“Do what you can to keep the support of villains under wraps, but if it comes down to making the bureaucrats happy or stopping an escaped inmate, you do whatever it takes to stop the inmates. If the villains are offering aid, then we’ll damn well accept it.”

A round of nods met his declaration.

“If they can help us recapture the priority targets, then all the better. The PRT want those guys back behind bars more than they want a clean public image. West and the old guard are playing hard-ball, but they won’t kick up a fuss so long as we get results.”

To my surprise, Director Irons nodded in agreement. I had to wonder whether he was one of the few directors that genuinely supported the new Protectorate, or if he just wanted the cage refilled.

“To that end, I’m sending you hunting, Eidolon.” Chevalier locked eyes with me, and I held his gaze. This was why I was here. They still needed me.

“Of course. I’d be happy to find Glaistig Uaine.”

“No. Not Glaistig.”

His refusal caught me short. Wasn’t she the most dangerous of the escapees? I, and I alone, would be able to face her in a direct confrontation.

Chevalier inclined his head towards Mr. Keene. “As already mentioned, the rest of the world is mostly invested in someone stopping String Theory before she gets another one of those giant cannons up and running. We get her, and we get hard proof that our new strategy is working. The PRT can parade her around, keep the international teams off our backs while we deal with the rest of the inmates.”

Damn it. This was a waste of my abilities. The Protectorate had dozens of people capable of tracking her down. I should be out there taking down the biggest threat of the group, not sneaking around trying to stop a deranged Tinker.

But I’d already agreed to play ball. If my frosty reception at Houston had been any indication, I probably didn’t have many fans in this room. Arguing the point wouldn’t get me anywhere.

I bit my tongue, and said nothing. Chevalier took my silence as acquiescence.

“What, no speech before we head off to save the day?” Evidently Satyrical was not a fan of silences.

A hiss of breath escaped Chevalier’s helm, as he hefted his cannonblade and planted the tip against the floor, resting both hands on the pommel. “We’re up against the clock here, so I’ll make it a short one.”

He looked over the assembled heroes, speaking to each of them in turn. “Right now, we’re all that stands between civilization and some of most reprehensible capes on the planet. This is one hell of a trial by fire for our new Protectorate, and the world will be watching.”

His fingers wound tighter against the handle of his sword. “It’s a daunting task, but also an opportunity. To show everyone that the Protectorate hasn’t been crippled by recent events. That we’ve made the correct choices. That we’re the right men and women for the job.”

Chevalier inclined his head towards the rear of the room. For a moment, I thought he was acknowledging me, glad that I was contributing to the effort despite everything that had happened.

“Armbands are in the back. Same rules as usual.”

Wishful thinking, I suppose.

The others began filing out of the room and I followed, grabbing an armband in passing. Thin lines of text requested my name.

“Eidolon.”

Time to remind everyone of what that title meant.


	5. Frostbite

“No… that won’t work either… come on, give me something useful…”

I continued to mutter under my breath as powers came and went in the blink of an eye, one discarded each time. The second I'd decided to keep, and the third was a Blaster power that I certainly was not using in its intended fashion, as it held me aloft above some Canadian woodland a short distance away from Vanderhoof. A constant stream of air fired out of both of my palms, silently decimating the snow in messy circles beneath me. The flight it provided wasn’t exactly elegant, but I was airborne and that was enough for the time being. 

“No… damn it, there must be something…”

In other circumstances, the view would have been breath-taking. The mountains in the distance bore snow-capped peaks, but the forest beneath me had already started to thaw, ice melting away in the summer air. The liquid drained downhill, towards a small lake. The lifecycle of water, encapsulated in a single moment. 

A handful of woodland animals had ventured out of their homes, lapping at the newfound stream, and paying no attention to the man in the sky. I could have been part of the scenery for all they cared. 

“…It’ll do.”

Sighing, I tilted my head upwards and waited impatiently as my powers grew. My agent hadn’t bothered to give me something actually useful that could track down String Theory. I knew there couldn’t be many more precognitive abilities left in the tank, but I’d have been ecstatic to receive one of those. 

Instead, a faint throbbing pulse took up root at the base of my skull. A danger sense, one that grew in intensity the closer I was to something that posed a danger to me. As powers went, it was awful. By the time you actually found out _who_ wanted to hurt you, you’d be close enough for them to do the deed. You’d spend your days in constant paranoia, afraid of every little mental pulse.

It would have to suffice. Out here in the Canadian wilderness, I imagined the only things that would be willing to inflict harm on me would be the more egotistical escapees, the ones that prized reputation above sense. String Theory certainly fit that bill. All I had to do was find the biggest pulse, throw the power out before it split my head in two, and arrest whoever was nearby. It wasn’t clean or sophisticated, but it would work. 

A maxim I was forced to repeat more and more often.

Silently, I ascended further into the air, soaring along in search of something that wanted to beat me up. 

In an ideal world, my flight would have been a quiet affair, allowing time for me to come up with a battle plan in peace. Unfortunately, the hunk of metal on my left arm continually blared out updates on the other teams in a digital monotone. I understood the importance of regular check-ins, especially with so many dangerous capes out there, but that didn’t make the constant stream of “ _Campanile at NF-12. All clear here,"_ any less tedious.

Occasionally, a hero would report in that they’d encountered one of the runaways, prompting a flurry of responses. The first few times, I’d altered course to help the hero in need, but the new Protectorate always reached them first. No fatalities, thankfully. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if I heard others sacrificing themselves while I was stuck in the middle of nowhere, but it probably wouldn’t be pretty. 

The forest thinned out as I minutely adjusted my course, allowing the dull thrum to drown out those thoughts. Did my head ache more if I banked left or right? Had it been worse flying over that abandoned shack, or was that just my imagination? 

I was almost ready to ditch the danger sense and try my luck with another power when the dull ache exploded into a full-blown migraine.

“Finally.”

A flock of startled birds took flight as something speared out of the treeline; leaves ripped free of their branches in an almost perfect circle around the object as it barrelled towards me. 

With a casual flick of my wrist, the air currents I’d been using to remain buoyant were directed towards the projectile, shoving it forcefully away.

I did end up tilting somewhat ungainly to the side with only one hand providing lift, but a moment’s lack of grace could be forgiven under the circumstances.

The sound of yet more projectiles whipping through the wind brought me back to my senses. Three went wide, one over each shoulder and the third somewhere off to the open sky on my left, but the fourth was on a collision course with my stomach. 

Another casual flick, and the continuous stream of air was aimed directly towards the projectile, halting its advance. It struggled and strained in mid-air, but failed to make any headway.

At first glance, it looked and acted like a javelin, a narrow spear with an extremely sharp point followed by a thin black haft. 

Except the haft didn’t quite end where I thought it would. Instead, an almost imperceptible straight line trailed out of the spear’s back, connecting it to something hidden within the trees. Not a projectile after all.

A useful weapon for an ambush. Exceptionally poor choice of target. 

Gently, I lowered myself to the ground, snow crunching underfoot as I brought my other hand up to deflect a fresh barrage of spears. The airflow doubled in intensity, actively forcing the thin spears to retract as they wobbled and wavered.

As if a switch had been flipped, the needle-thin spears shot backwards. A faint curse crept through the air, followed by a rather eerie whistling noise and a metallic scraping sound in the fresh snow.

Rolling my eyes, I launched myself forward into the sky. Always with the running away.

My costume swept around in a flourish as I landed on the other side of the trees, directly in the path of the fleeing inmate. They weren’t much to look at, not that I could really throw stones in that department. Bleached blonde hair that had faded at the roots, thin enough to look malnourished, wearing a prisoner’s uniform with the sleeves torn off. She looked to be regretting that last decision now. 

The dull thud of metal digging into earth echoed around us as she skidded to a halt, eyes focused on my palms. Good instincts. I’d cut off the gusts, but hadn’t discarded the ability. 

“Shit. They really send _you_ to arrest me? Wasn’t expecting the VIP treatment.” Her words came out as a hiss, revealing a maw full of sharpened metallic spikes in place of teeth. 

Making a show of dusting myself off, I thought back to the giant monitor in Houston, showing the names and faces of every escapee. While I could no longer memorise new information perfectly, things I’d picked up while that power was active seemed to be staying fresh in my mind, at least for the time being. Snow fell from my shoulders as the relevant information filtered back in. 

“Don’t flatter yourself, Nailbiter.” If she noticed the slight pause before her name came back to me then she didn’t comment.

Her eyes darted around, looking for a way out. “Couldn’t make out the costume through the trees. Don’t suppose you’d look the other way just this once?”

I levelled a glare at her through the helm. She shrugged. “You’ve got bigger pricks to fry. Wasting time dealing with me won’t help anyone.”

“Don’t worry, this won’t take long at all.”

She snarled, her fingers thinning and lengthening into the same spears from earlier, but I was already in motion. One airburst, a second, and I was behind her. Nailbiter whirled on the spot, crouching low as she opened the twisted mess that was her mouth.

Two dozen spears fired out from her gums, and for half a second, I could see the glee in her eyes at the thought of impaling me across the hillside. 

The pained howling that followed was considerably less gleeful. I cocked a stone eyebrow as she desperately tried to pull her teeth back, but many of them had become lodged in my body, buried deep in chunks of rock from the Breaker form.

Some powers were worth holding on to. 

“Now that that’s out of the way, I have some questions.”

“’Uck ooo!”

Hero would have responded with something witty, like ‘don’t talk with your mouth full’. Legend might have given them a little speech about the virtues of mankind and how they could change their villainous ways. Alexandria probably would have retorted with a complete psychological assassination, breaking them down until they surrendered.

Unfortunately for Nailbiter, she was dealing with me instead. 

Ever so slowly, I folded my stone arms and looked on impassively as she tried to rip her teeth out of my torso. She was refusing to wince despite the obvious discomfort. Must have been a prison thing. Don’t show weakness and all that. 

“Where’s String Theory?” Nailbiter glared at me up at me, responding with distorted swears. Withholding a sigh, I yanked her remaining teeth out of my chest. “Talk.”

“No fucking clue,” she replied, massaging her jaw. 

“I can tell when you’re lying.” A lie of my own, but one that worked surprisingly often.

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you want me to say? Dunno how we got out of the cage but it scattered us everywhere.” Air hissed past her teeth as she huffed out a laugh. “First person I’ve seen since is you.”

I shook my head. “I’ve read your file. You aren’t one of the stupid ones,” attempt to ambush me notwithstanding, “and String Theory could easily wipe you out with a stray shot. So, I’ll ask again. Where _is_ she?”

A few muttered curses drifted my way, but after a second look at the rock armour I had yet to drop, she acquiesced.

“Still dunno,”- I raised my palm,- “but she’s probably further out than you think,” she hurriedly tacked on. “Rumour is she grabbed a bunch of Lab Rat’s stuff last night, before the breakout.”

“Why?”

Nailbiter’s glare intensified. “No fucking idea. Maybe to auction it back to him, she’s done that before. Maybe she knew what was about to happen. All I know is she definitely had some of his potions on hand, and if she’s half as clever as she pretends to be, she’ll have used them already.”

Seething, I bit back a curse. Sloppy, too sloppy, assuming that she would have been on foot. These were the kind of mistakes that got people hurt, and after all these years I was still falling prey to them. Stupid of me.

I was so lost in thought that I barely noticed Nailbiter glancing at the forest, before her legs elongated into points and propelled her towards the treeline.

She went careening straight into the trunk of the nearest spruce as I idly fired another air blast, watching as she slid down the bark and collapsed into the snow with a soft thump. Not important right now. There were greater concerns.

Muscle memory guided my fingers as I pressed the armband’s buttons, but my mind was elsewhere. String Theory could be anywhere by now, easily past the cordons and defensive line if she’d stolen something that granted enhanced movement. How long had it been since I’d heard the news of the breakout? Two hours, maybe more? How much time would she need to get a new weapon off the ground? 

The armband beeped at me, ready for the message. I took a moment to keep the frustration out of my tone.

“Eidolon here. I’ve apprehended Nailbiter. Send a recovery team to…” Which part of the search grid was I in again? They all blended together before too long. 

“To my location.” That would do. 

Hoisting Nailbiter out of the snow-bank, I brushed the sleet off a flat rock, and laid her down atop it. Less chance of her catching a cold that way. Not that she’d ever thank me for it.

A digital voice confirmed that a team was on the way, and a quick check showed that she was breathing fine despite the sudden loss of consciousness.

Now came the hard part. Another admittance that I wasn’t as fast as I should be, that others were having to pick up the slack more and more often as I fell short of what they needed. Of what _humanity_ needed.

I took a deep breath, and called for help. 

“Door to String Theory.”

The portal opened and I stepped through, a trail of disappointment lingering behind me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've committed a cardinal sin. I've included a Ward character in a Worm fic.


	6. Shoot for the Moon

The July heat made its presence felt immediately as I walked out of the portal, the shade from the trees suddenly absent. Doormaker’s hole in space closed without a sound as I surveyed the area, leery of falling into any traps that String Theory might have left behind.

A small village stood before me, bordered by hills to the north and a river to the east. One lone road ran straight through the centre, passing alongside me and off into the distance. It reminded me of trading outposts from the Old West, upgraded with twenty first century materials. If I never saw another picture of those again, it’d be too soon. They were all over the place in Houston.

Too small to warrant any PRT presence. Presumably too small to even have a local cape. Maybe a few officers would swing by from time to time, but from up here the village looked rather peaceful. A couple of fishermen were out on the riverbanks, a young woman was pushing a stroller along the sidewalk, and some cyclists were riding down the hill. One of them looked back and his mouth fell open in shock at the sight of me. 

Nothing immediately stood out as the destination of our runaway Tinker. A cloaking field? Camouflage emitter? Perhaps she’d taken the idea of going to ground literally, and I should be burrowing to find her. The line between genius and madness was blurred at the best of times, and Tinkers straddled that line more than most. 

My own powers went into the void as the familiar feeling welled up inside, giving a cursory glance over my shoulder just in case. 

“Ah.”

I was already moving before the thought had even coalesced. The road running through the village continued behind me, curving slightly before sloping up a single grassy hill.

At the top of which sat an observatory.

An observatory with a gigantic telescope looking up at the stars. 

Silent thanks were uttered to the Lord as I took to the sky. The first power flickered to life, a movement power focusing on parabolic arcs. It would burn out almost immediately without charging it, but I only needed one jump. Good enough. 

Red and blue lights flashed beneath me; a single police car parked outside the observatory’s double doors. The car doors opened as I plummeted like a stone, cape billowing as I landed in front of two bewildered officers. Their muttering wasn’t as quiet as they thought. 

“Shit, is that really him?”

“Typical. We only came out here for a noise complaint.”

Pointing back down the hill, I issued orders. “Both of you, get out of here. Evacuate the town.”

“Holy…it is him!” The younger of two officers didn’t move, his hero worship outweighing any sense of self-preservation. His partner was already back inside the car.

“Rookie, it’s him. And if Eidolon’s telling us to run, we run. Now get in.” Thankfully the older officer had a decent head on his shoulders. Good, I’d wasted too long waiting already.

A sign on the door showed a frowning scientist holding their hand up, palm facing out. A little speech bubble drawn next to him noted that the observatory wasn’t open to the public on Mondays. A stroke of luck. Less chance of civilians being caught the crossfire. 

Something had snapped the lock on the observatory’s door, and I slipped inside. An engine revved as the police pulled away. They could get the word out in time. The village didn’t seem particularly large, it wouldn’t take long for them to reach everyone. Even if they fell short, I should be able to protect it. 

But should wasn’t a guarantee.

Electricity crackled around me as I entered a wide lobby. Sections of wall had been cut off, leaving behind exposed wiring and rattling pipes. Sparks flew from some of those cables, where great clumps had simply been ripped out, resulting in flickering lightbulbs and dead computers. Some metal detectors stood to my left, guarding the exit of the gift shop. They’d gone dark along with the rest of the electronics. 

A cross between a museum and a gallery was on my right, curving to follow the observatory’s circular shape. From here, it looked to be one of the interactive museums that focused on letting kids press buttons to simulate various space-based phenomenon. Models of the solar system, old rockets that once explored the stars, displays showing a theoretical moon base that had almost been a reality, and the wide variety of complex tools that made these dreams possible. 

The glass on each exhibit had already been smashed and their contents stolen. Frustrating. She’d gotten her hands on some equipment. 

Satisfied that there weren’t any traps lurking in the gallery, I headed further down into the lobby, towards a short hallway at the back. Leaflets and adverts scattered the tiled floor here, thrown away as a madwoman tried to get at whatever precious metal was behind them. One caught in the hem of my cape, a cheering kid looking up at the stars.

I picked up the pace. 

The constant thrum of power tools grew in volume with every step, rebounding through the empty halls as a dull echo. Three sets of doors branched off at the end of the corridor, a pair of double doors at the far end, plus a single door set into either wall. The pounding vibrations could be heard through the double doors, so I very deliberately opened one of the others first. As much as I wanted to take the fight directly to her, it would be folly not to check for any nasty surprises in her lair. 

It led into a small conference room that had given most of its space to several wooden benches, while a number of glass exhibits formed a square around the edge. The kind of room used for lecturing bored schoolchildren about the wonders of the universe, where teachers would hope that the tools and gadgets on display would be enough to spark a modicum of interest from their pupils. Much like the other exhibits, the ones in here had been broken wide open. 

Gently, I closed the first door and crossed the corridor to the second. This one had an electronic lock near the top, but the light was off. Tearing all the wires out of the walls couldn’t have been good for the security system. 

Pushing the door ajar, I found myself behind the counter of the observatory’s gift shop. The cash registers had all been forced open, their drawers devoid of any remaining money. Dollar coins did have small amounts of nickel and brass in them, I remembered that much. An easy source of uncommon metals. 

The rest of the shop wasn’t much better. Boxed kits of DIY science experiments and microscopes for all ages had been ripped into with varying degrees of success. Cut-outs promoting costumes of ‘scientifically notable’ heroes had been thrown face down on the floor, alongside some toy halberds. Must be old stock. 

Something crunched under my hand as I examined the countertop, little rotors and stock parts from some overpriced remote-control drones that promised fun for all the family. Twenty or thirty of those boxes had been opened, with matching quadcopter instruction manuals scattered across the floor. 

Assured that nothing was going to stab me in the back, I ducked out into the hallway once again. Bringing my wrist up to eye level, I noticed that my armband’s screen had blanked out. Too far away from the active area of operations for the map, but communications should still work. 

“Eidolon to all teams. I’ve located String Theory.”

All that was left was to take a deep breath, cast a cursory look over the three powers I had at my disposal, and step over the threshold. 

Immediately, something sharp came to rest against my neck as the sound of construction momentarily ground to a halt. String Theory had set herself up in the centre of the observatory, in a large circular room with a domed ceiling. Half-dismantled computers and scientific equipment lined the walls, transforming the space from something that wouldn’t have looked out of place at NASA into a modern-day Frankenstein’s laboratory. A handful of people were kneeling on the far side of the room opposite me, fear writ large across their faces and hands held behind their heads. 

Well, that answered the question of where the employees had gone. 

The room’s centrepiece had been a single large telescope, easily fifty foot long, passing through a small slit in the roof. String Theory had wasted no time in turning it into something else, hooking up stolen wires and cobbled together chunks of metal near the base of the gigantic tube. The changes wound their way up the telescope, gradually lessening until the very top where the least noticeable modifications had been made. Keeping her weapon a secret from the world until the last moment. 

Little drones flitted around it like bees around their queen, their flight erratic as they tried to lift the additional weight that had been kludged onto their frames. All six that I could see had pincer-like claws on their undersides, wielding drills or makeshift soldering irons. 

I risked a glance to my right, and mentally adjusted that tally. They might also be wielding a hunk of metal that had been sharpened into something resembling a blade. 

Fingers snapped and the drones returned to work, save for the one attempting to hold me hostage. The woman of the hour sauntered around the side of the telescope’s mounting, wearing an ill-fitting lab coat over the top of her prisoner’s uniform, her dark hair tied back in a simple braid. A pair of thick glasses that seemed too large for her face reflected the light from a laptop clutched in her hands. She kept tapping away furiously at its keyboard, ignoring how her stolen coat caught on the edge of the modified telescope. Without breaking eye contact with the machine, she addressed me. 

“I know I didn’t leave many tracks, but here you are anyway, just in time for the big show. That’s almost impressive.”

Civilians on the verge of panic. A megalomaniacal supervillain, monologuing while holding the world hostage. That balance on the edge of the knife, whether today would be a day to savour or a day to regret. I couldn’t help it. Underneath the mask, I smiled. 

These were the moments worth living for. 

“For not being quite as much of a disappointment as you could have been, I’ll even let you pick the first target. A restaurant where you got food poisoning? An ex’s house? Hell, an ex’s _city?_ ” String Theory loved the sound of her voice so much that she didn’t bother turning as her first drone crashed to the ground, blade still clutched in its claw. 

“How about a shot towards that replacement of yours? It must sting, all those years of service and they replace you for a younger model.” One of the scientists muffled a yelp as half a drone landed next to her, severed down the middle. 

“Those are small fry though. Go big or fuck off, that’s the way. Let’s see…do you prefer the East Coast or the West?” The walls were seared with twin scorch marks, fragments of drone falling from each. 

“Could always close your eyes and throw a dart at a map. Maybe it’ll land on Cardiff again. Their reaction last go around was priceless.” A welding torch sparked out as the drone keeping it airborne crashed to the floor. 

“Or there’s always the coup de grace. Nail that ugly hunk of rock sitting in orbit.” String Theory didn’t flinch as the final pair of drones shattered over her head. Finally, she deigned to look away from her laptop, with an insufferably smug grin plastered on her face. “Name the target Eidi. There’s a good boy.”

A tendril of plasma erupted from my spine, lashing out at her hands. String Theory dropped the laptop with a curse, scowling as my new limbs seared straight through the screen. 

Her eyes narrowed, glaring out from behind her glasses. “Rude.”

“Necessary.” I had no time for games, as four superheated tendrils writhed from my back. “Are the hostages unharmed?”

A manic gleam entered those eyes, and String Theory’s smug grin split wide open. “Whole world’s my hostage, Eidi.”

The grin ratcheted up another notch. “So try asking me that again in thirteen seconds.”

I spun as she cackled, hurling myself towards the improvised weapon. Dead man’s switch, of course the lunatic would have built one of those into the machine. The laptop would have been meant as a distraction, its destruction activating the backup trigger. 

All four tendrils were roughly shoved into the telescope’s base, the mad scientist laughing as the weapon began to shudder. There was no way of knowing which part of the mechanical abomination was the trigger, so I settled for carving away the bottom and forcing it _up,_ ideally disconnecting it from anything vital in the process. 

Pieces rained down around us as they shook themselves loose of the central structure. Shrapnel came away directly above me, and time slowed as I watched jagged metal shards careen towards my face. 

Time continued to slow until the threat of impalement was almost non-existent, and String Theory’s laugh had devolved into an unintelligibly deep wheeze. Power number three reactivated, and time dilated. For once, my agent hadn’t screwed me at every turn. 

I stepped to the side, steadied my footing and then forced the tendrils back into the telescope, listening as the sound of melting metal and screeching gears came across just as distorted as her laugh. 

The steady hiss of metal sliding into plasma snapped back to normal, and the world resumed its previously scheduled pace. String Theory had stopped cackling, her grin downturned. 

“Do you have to be such an insufferable Luddite?” she huffed, adopting a haughty voice. 

“Enough talking.” The tendrils extended as I grabbed String Theory, stopping the telescope from falling over. One hand locked her arm behind her, and the other snaked underneath my costume’s armour, flipping open a fake abdominal muscle to withdraw some plastic cuffs. 

I’d asked for a utility belt, but apparently that would have ruined Eidolon’s aesthetic. Compromises were made. 

She didn’t resist as I cinched them tight, her head lolling back to rest on my shoulder. That damnable grin was back in force. 

“So close, Eidi. I was almost halfway to being impressed, but then your natural plebeian instincts kicked in.”

“You have the right to remain silent. Kindly exercise it.”

“Don't want to spoil the big surprise? I understand.”

I opened my mouth to respond when the tendrils felt the first vibrations.

String Theory winked at me. “Didn't have time to get a fusion reactor online. Be a real shame if someone shoved a truckload of plasma into my baby instead.”

Her cannon began to shudder once more as I turned. Electric blue lights dashed up the side of the telescope, forming a ring around the top that started pulsing. 

The tendrils retracted but the damage had already been done. Time began to slow again, but I may as well have been trying to dam a flood with a sieve. 

Sparks flew, the air distorted around the end of the telescope, a shimmer of heat- 

Then the weapon shattered, its only shot arcing up into the sky. 

And I didn’t know how to stop it. 


	7. All the Time in the World

There was no thunderous crash. No explosive gunshot, sonic boom, or deafening screech. That was the strange part. All those years of saving the day and you grow numb to the noise. It becomes routine, expected, something that _should_ be there when a deranged supervillain activates their doomsday weapon. 

Then it vanishes, and the absence is all the more notable. 

The captured scientists were like statues, mouths frozen open and prepared to scream, but no sound could be heard. String Theory was still smirking even with her hands bound behind her back. 

My tendrils lashed out as if they could feel the unease, the fear of what might happen. Another wasted moment as I directed them towards the telescope, suspended mid-shatter. Two intercepted chunks of metal that might have caught the civilians while the others shoved the remaining structure sideways, towards the door I’d entered from. It’d crash there eventually. 

Jagged circles were torn out of the clouds as dark blue lightning arced through the sky, slow enough that I could make out the individual forks lancing off from the main body. A thousand possibilities of where it could land ran through my mind, each more devastating than the last. 

I needed information. A way to stop the shot from impacting, mitigate the damage somehow. My fingers pressed down the armband’s buttons and nothing happened. I shook my wrist expecting to hear the tell-tale rattle of damaged electronics. Had the thing been broken during the fight? 

Realisation set in and I exhaled in annoyance. Of course it wasn’t working properly. Dragon’s tech was good, but as far as I knew, it had never been tested inside a temporal distortion. The only thing giving me a chance to call for assistance was the same thing messing with communications.

Then the moment I dropped the time dilation power, it’d be too late to warn anyone regardless. 

I took another deep breath and examined what was left of the room. Drone remains littered the floor, now joined by the few pieces of telescope that had actually landed. Considerably more pieces were still in mid-air, moving so slowly as to appear motionless. What was left of the telescope itself was beginning to tumble away from me at a glacial pace. The civilians were still unharmed, huddled in the corner behind me. I doubted they’d ever been in any real danger. String Theory had only kept them on hand to prevent me from levelling the entire building. 

Her smug, superior grin was etched in place, so pleased with how she’d pulled the wool over my eyes. Too bad. She made this mess, she could help clean it up. 

I grasped String Theory’s shoulder, and let the time power well up inside me. Mentally, I shoved outwards, feeling the temporal effect extend to her. She blinked twice, and started cackling again. 

I bit down on a sigh, watching as the fragments of metal inched forwards. A limitation of the ability. I could keep the power solely within myself, moving while the rest of the world crawled to a halt. Or I could share it with others, diluting the effect and speeding everything else up. String better have a solution to all this, or I’d shortened my window for nothing. 

“Your weapon. How do I stop it?”

She seemed more interested in gazing around as the world crept through molasses. “Oooh, now we’re getting somewhere. Should have broken out the fun stuff from the start, Eidi.”

“The weapon-”

“Yes yes, the F-Driver. Well, it was going to be an F-Driver, except someone with no appreciation of the arts interrupted me before it was finished. Closer to a B or C-Driver, really. Not a fan of repeating one of my old classics, but you uncultured cretins didn’t leave me many options.” Her hands were still cuffed, so she whipped her head towards the side and used her swinging braid to point. “What’s the rate of dilation on this anyway?”

“That’s not important-”

“Because you don’t know. Flunk out of seventh grade math, did you?”

“ _Enough._ " The plasma tendrils squirmed as I spoke, and String Theory finally looked me in the eye. “The Driver. How do I stop it?”

String Theory laced her words with more condescension than usual. “You already broke it, genius. It’s stopped.”

I didn’t curse. Didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I very deliberately chose my next words. “The bolt that your cannon already fired. How do I prevent it from impacting?”

Her lips quirked, the superior smile turning a notch towards menacing. “You can’t.”

Frustrating, but not unexpected. “How much damage can that one shot manage?”

String Theory tilted her head to the side, numbers running through her mind. “Well, you messed with the timer, forced it to use an unfamiliar power supply, made a complete mess of the trigger, so…a mile?” I looked back at her in shock. “Give or take. Maybe closer to two.”

Two miles of destruction, spoken as if she was discussing the weather. How many people would be in those miles? How many lives had this egotist cost us? 

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to ask another question. “How long until it lands?”

String rolled her eyes. “For us? However long it takes for this little party trick of yours to run out of juice. For them” -she swung her braid towards the hostages- “maybe five seconds.”

Not enough time. Never enough time. 

“And the target?” I had to know. Guessing the hundreds of possible tragedies she might have unleashed was worse than being told the one correct calamity. 

“Don’t make me repeat myself, it’s degrading for us both.”

Repeat herself? Why would she… 

My eyes widened at the implication. “You aimed it _here?_ ”

“ _I_ aimed for DC. You, disgrace to the gene pool that you are, screwed with my targeting system by making it fire prematurely.” Her eyes flicked between the plasma tendrils, still extended from my back, before locking mine once more. “Then for reasons that I could not fathom even if I had a millennium to study them, you aimed my B-Driver straight up.”

String Theory’s smirk faded. “What goes up must come down.”

There wasn’t a hint of mirth on her face. In my gut, I could feel that this wasn’t another trick. She was being genuine. 

Which meant that I’d effectively signed the death warrants of everyone in this room. 

“These... things can’t end like this.” For a moment, I wasn’t certain if I was talking to her or myself. 

“It wouldn’t have if you didn’t ruin everything,” String Theory added. Her barb didn’t carry as much weight as she’d like. I’d already come to the same conclusion myself. 

When I didn’t respond, she took it as a cue to continue. “A little bit more time. That’s all I needed. My baby would have gone off randomly, and you would all be too busy dealing with that and those inbred morons from the cage to find me.”

“This was a distraction?” I asked incredulously.

The fire left her eyes as she answered. “It was supposed to be. Whip up an invisibility field to hide the shots, little hick town like this wouldn’t have investigated what was happening here for a while, would have bought me a few days to find somewhere to lay low.”

I didn’t let her know that she’d already been discovered before I arrived. Invisibility field or not, she’d gotten so caught up in the rush of lunacy that she hadn’t dampened the noise of her construction. A trick I’d keep in my back pocket, if she ever got loose again. 

“You can’t be happy with this as your legacy?” Asking her directly wasn’t getting anywhere, so I played up to her notorious ego instead. 

She rolled her eyes, as if she was addressing a particularly stupid child. “It wouldn’t have been a _legacy_ if someone didn’t break everything.” Gesturing both her bound hands up at the collapsing telescope, she added, “My baby wasn’t supposed to go off for another hour. It’s why it fell apart. Had to speed up the firing sequence when you arrived.”

“Irrelevant. The only fact that they’ll remember is the infamous String Theory being taken out by her own weapon,” I challenged, hoping the fear of losing her reputation might force her to reveal a solution. 

She shrugged. “The world will mourn the loss of such a valuable intellect, but I’ll get the satisfaction of bringing down one of the Protectorate’s own founders. Only two of you left these days, you’re getting quite rare.”

She turned away, face tilting up towards the sky in an almost wistful expression. “It’s not quite the moon, but it will do.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You’re insane.”

For a moment, something melancholy flickered in her eyes. It was gone almost as quickly, leaving me doubting if it had ever been there to begin with. 

“I guess I am.”

I turned my back on her. She wouldn’t help, no surprise there. It had been a long shot anyway. 

A quick glance showed that her bolt had reached its apex, reversing direction to shoot back down towards us. I didn’t really understand how that worked, but I’d also been in the game long enough to never question the ridiculous stunts determined Tinkers could manage. 

Dooring out wasn’t an option, not without abandoning half a dozen innocent men and women to their deaths. I saved people. Always had, always will. Maybe I’d turned a blind eye when I should have paid more attention, but I wouldn’t willingly abandon someone to their fate. Especially when they wouldn’t even be in this position if I’d been more thorough with the blasted weapon. 

_Focus. I can still act. All’s not lost yet._

Time dilation would have to stay. Take that away and my options dwindled to zero. The plasma tendrils retracted instead, vanishing from sight as I discarded one ability. The dwindling leaping power went with it. Two spaces, freed up for a miracle. 

The blue lightning was slowly gaining ground, the forks splitting faster and faster. Two replacements rose to the fore, both Mover powers. Neither of them would let me evacuate everyone in the room. They went into the void immediately. 

Another pair of powers, another pair of discards. I looked up at the encroaching strike as it parted clouds, and whispered to my agent, “I’m not leaving. Pick something _better_.”

String Theory glanced my way, but offered no comment.

Two more. The former granted me an armoured body, the latter a personal forcefield. 

“Right direction, but not good enough. Try again.”

The faint sound of crackling electricity became distinct once more. I was losing my grip on the time dilation, its effect weakening as it started to slip through my fingers. 

I almost threw away both new powers on reflex, only to stop as I processed what they could actually do. The first wasn’t particularly useful, a regenerative ability that affected myself and organic matter. That only worked if there was something left of me to regenerate from. 

The second wasn’t much better. Some form of protective shell that might cover all of us, a harder outer shell with softer internals. Almost egg-like in how it felt. 

Twenty years ago, I would have received the perfect solution to this problem in one power, instead of kludging two together and hoping they might do the trick. 

Now came the hard part. 

I closed my eyes and waited. Not focusing on the bolt, or the civilians, or the oddly subdued supervillain. Just letting that familiar feeling well up inside, an ability reaching its full potential. Anything less and we’d all be vaporised in an instant. 

Clangs of metal starting to ring out as the pieces of falling debris closest to the ground finally made contact. 

And I waited. 

Screams slowly became audible, separated from the din. 

“Come on. Just a little more.”

The air stirred, and I could almost taste the static on my tongue. My eyes opened, and I grabbed String Theory, yanking her across the room. She seemed too dumbfounded to protest. 

In one smooth motion, I pushed her down on top of the civilians as they returned to normal speed. Crouching down next to the group, I spread my arms, trying to encompass them all. 

Static tingled all over me. I didn’t dare look back. 

A silent prayer escaped my lips. Lord I hoped this worked. 

The time power fell away as I released my grasp, and braced for impact. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! Do you like Parahumans fiction and artwork?! Then why not try the new Parahumans Zine, a collaborative effort by thirty five of the fandom's coolest kids and also me to create a whole bunch of canon-compliant stories and art pieces for Earth Bet. Try it, won't you?: 
> 
> https://parahumanzine.tumblr.com/post/636685203187892224/the-time-has-come-thanks-to-all-the-contributors


	8. Survivors

“Are we dead?” a terrified voice called out in the dark.

“Would you be able to ask that if you were dead? Can’t believe you call yourself a scientist,” answered a familiar patronising tone.

Somebody groaned, and it took a moment to realise that someone was me. Things were digging into my side, and it was dark enough that I couldn’t tell whether my eyes were opened or closed.

I tried to push myself upright only for my arms to remain stubbornly motionless, held in place by a thick layer of something that squelched whenever I shifted. Thoughts of the Meinhardt girl briefly flashed through my mind, a little bubble of panic welling up at the thought of being trapped inside there again while a man wearing my face decimated my life’s work...

“Hey, jolly green dumbass, you still alive? Don’t particularly want to be stuck in here forever.” 

String Theory’s voice cut through the haze, and I pushed those other thoughts back into the recesses of my brain where they belonged. There were people nearby. It wouldn’t do for them to hear Eidolon lose his composure.

Quietly, I exhaled and then pulled the power inwards. A rather disgusting suckingnoise followed, like pulling your boots free from a thick patch of mud, as we all tumbled out onto the earthen floor.

“Non-conductive gel layers with some kind of supercharged rubber for the outside. Hm. Neat trick.”

String Theory loved the sound of her own voice too much. My helmet slowly turned to the side as she continued to babble, and the last of our protective cocoon retracted as the ability slipped away.

“The gel doubled as a kinetic absorber, but how did you account for the heat? No wait, I see it. Regenerative tissues, that’s cheating…”

“Quiet.” 

Miraculously, String Theory shut up.

With aggravatingly slow motions, I pulled myself upright. String was a few feet away, hands still cuffed behind her. She’d rolled onto her side when the cocoon spat her out, and didn’t seem capable of turning over alone. The observatory employees had gathered themselves in a small circle, gazing outwards. None of them had eyes for me, which seemed a little bit strange. Normally civilians were all about hero worship and getting autographs after being helped, but perhaps this was better. There were more important things to do today than giving out signatures.

Then I turned around, and the weight of what happened here finally crashed over me.

“Good God…” 

Barren. Stretching out as far as the eye could see, all the way to the horizon, was just brown barren dirt. There had been an observatory here, once. Now there was no sign that it had ever existed. At the end of a battle there was always some memento of what had occurred, scars on the landscape or fallen to bury. But here, a patch of the world had just been peeled away and discarded. No rubble or remains, none of the things I’d witnessed dozens of times before during S-Class engagements, there was just _nothing._

The little river that ran alongside the observatory had evaporated entirely, leaving behind an empty dirt trench. It wasn’t even wet. Flash-dried by a bolt from the blue.

Hills that used to surround the north end of the town had been flattened down into an almost perfectly straight line, now devoid of anything that had given the area a semblance of identity.

The town… 

My head snapped around as I hunted for any sign that it had survived. I knew what I’d find. I checked anyway.

Gusts of air blew past, stirring the dirt below.

Someone choked back a sob.

The part of me that had grown callous and cold over the years tried to face the situation logically. Two miles, gone in an instant. It could have been so much worse than a little village in the middle of nowhere. What if she’d shot at New York, or Houston, or Toronto? How many lives had been saved by my swift actions here? 

How many had been ruined? 

That little voice was drowned out by the cries behind me. Rationalisation could wait. Right now, these folks needed a hero. So I did what heroes do.

“I warned the police upon my arrival. Told them to evacuate the town. There is still a chance that the people who lived down there made it out in time…” I trailed off, looking at their tear-stained faces. They knew the odds of surviving _that_ as well as I did.

The dam burst, and one by one, I offered them a shoulder to cry on. It wasn’t much. But there were some things even powers couldn’t fix.

When the helicopters and Dragoncraft finally arrived, they found me still standing in that crater, muttering empty words of comfort to those unlucky enough to survive.

The steady sound of aircraft rotors faded as heavy boots slapped against the earth, PRT officers fanning out around us to secure what little was left here. Medics swarmed past me, and I left the civilians in their hands. Better off with them than with me.

Rime, still dressed in her fur-lined costume despite the summer heat, was directing two capes in costumes I didn’t recognise towards String Theory. Together, the three of them pulled her to her feet, and bundled her towards the back of the largest Dragoncraft. A handful more stood around awkwardly, flitting between trying to help the civilians and staying out of the officers’ way. They’d clearly come in expecting a fight, and ended up with this instead.

She sneered as they dragged her through the crowd, her eyes drinking in the scene. Her escort had dragged her into the back of Dragon’s ship before she saw me, her sneer twisting into a savage smile. Metal panels began to slide into place, and before she vanished from view, String Theory mouthed two words to me.

“Nice try.” 

Engines sparked to life, lifting the largest of Dragon’s vehicles into the air. I watched them go until they were faint specks in the distance.

“They’ve rigged a cell for her in the Guild Headquarters. Keep her out of trouble until everyone’s certain the Birdcage is secure again.” A familiar starburst helmet crossed my vision, coming to stand alongside me.

“Hm.” 

Exalt tilted his head away from the crater. “Walk with me?” 

I wasn’t contributing much standing in the way of trained medics, so I followed. Exalt seemed to stop arbitrarily a short distance away from the crowd. Reading the air currents to see if we were out of earshot, if I wasn’t mistaken. A clever talent, honed by a man whose power left him very little in the way of everyday use.

“What the blazes happened here?” he hissed.

“String Theory’s cannon.” I glanced back at the crater. “She finished it faster than any of us could have predicted.” 

Exalt’s hiss became more strangled with his reply. “It was operational?”

I nodded. “Had I not arrived when I did, it would have fired off far more than a single shot.”

He ran a hand over his head. “How did it go down?” 

Exalt held his arm up as I began to recount the story, the armband’s microphone recording the details. More thorough paperwork would obviously need to be filed later, but this would do for an initial assessment of events.

By the time I’d finished, the last of the civilians had been loaded into the helicopters and flown away to safety. Exalt puffed out a sigh and crossed his arms, one hand reaching up to rub the bridge of his nose.

“Sounds like you had it rough.” I gave a slow nod in response. Rough was somewhat of an understatement. “We didn’t see anyone on the flight in, but I’ll give the order to search for those cops and any evacuees that might have survived.”

“Good.” 

“You’ve also got some new marching orders.” I perked up at that. Chevalier must finally be starting to see reason.

“Head back to Houston. Rest up. Now that String Theory’s immediate threat has passed, we can take things from here.” 

My thoughts ground to a halt as I processed what he’d said. Exalt kept talking, likely trying to deliver all the orders he’d been given before I could question them.

“Legally you’re no longer a member of the Protectorate, and while extenuating circumstances can be taken into consideration...” He left the statement hanging in the air, inviting a response.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t trust myself not to curse if I opened my mouth.

Exalt continued speaking quietly, and I was acutely aware of him watching my every move. “We’ve got a perfect circle two miles across where everything inside has been wiped out. By your own admission, yourself and a certifiably insane Tinker are the only ones who know exactly what happened here.” 

“The civilians can corroborate my story.” 

Exalt levelled a glare. “Including everything that happened inside that time bubble you mentioned?” 

Our discussion swiftly turned into a staring contest, and as always, Exalt blinked first. He tried to put forward a firm tone, but I could hear the fragility behind it. “Look, I’m just trying to lay out the facts as we know them. First you vanished from Houston without a word as soon as we heard about the breakout-” 

“Hardly uncommon.” 

“By itself, sure. You’ve got a history of charging after trouble. But then you show up at Zero, pretending that nothing had changed and you were still part of the team-” 

“I went there to help.”

 _"Then_ ,” Exalt bulldozed over my explanation, “the next time anyone sees you is in the middle of a damn war zone, surviving something that should have, by rights, killed you.” 

I frowned, trying to figure out exactly what point Exalt was making. I’d always been an outlier, surviving things that should have killed other capes was fairly standard for me.

He sighed, and leaned in closer. “There are… certain people who think you might have staged the whole thing, to try and fix your rep after you know what.” 

I couldn’t stop my voice from turning frosty at the accusation. “Explain.” 

“It’s mostly rumours and hearsay, but it’s gaining traction in a few circles. They’re pointing at you leaving us behind in Houston as proof, claiming that if me or Dispatch or anyone you normally work with had been here sooner, we would have seen through your plans.”

No. That’s… no. I knew my credibility in the cape community was no longer at its peak, but to accuse me of such a thing… “That’s preposterous.”

Exalt didn’t respond for a long moment. “Maybe, yeah.”

“You can’t seriously believe that I planned to cause _this?"_ I gestured at the ground around us, still charbroiled and devoid of anything but the dirt. A couple of officers looked our way at the noise, and I forced my voice back down into a whisper. “I’ve worked with you for ten years. Do you really think I’d attempt to pull something like that?”

“Would we be able to stop you if you did?” Exalt murmured back.

The air stirred as I fell quiet. Once again, my ex-second in command decided to fill the silence instead. “What could we do, if you were lying? It’s impossible to contain you, fighting you is a losing proposition that would shatter the public’s hope in us, so our only choice is to take you at your word because _we don’t have an alternative.”_

He gestured out at the barren plain. “If you did try a Hail Mary to fix your reputation, what would we be able to do? That’s the argument folks are making. That despite everything, we’re still neutered when it comes to you. And as long as you’re a part of this operation, nobody will be able to focus without worrying that’ll you be behind them, attempting another war crime in the name of some shadowy conspiracy or your own damn ego.” Exalt’s voice strained to contain his words to a whisper. 

“Then why did Chevalier accept my assistance in the first place?” I growled back.

“Because no matter how deranged you are, you’ve never tried to blow up the moon.” Exalt glared as he spoke, “And we’re so dangerously low on manpower after all the revelations from Brockton that we had to let a wolf loose to hunt a bear.” 

Neither of us spoke as his speech lingered in the air. I could have reached for a power to point out holes in what he was saying. My agent was already settling a Thinker ability into place, one that focused on the connections between words.

And all that would do was prove him right.

In the end, I settled for a simple response. “I see.”

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re telling the truth. The information adds up, and Watchdog should verify your claims before too long. But right now, you’re a lightning rod for disaffected capes.” Exalt’s voice had returned to its usual practiced tone, the emotions hidden again.

Perhaps it was hearing this speech for the second time that made it sink in. I looked back at the other heroes, watching them move throughout the scene without a single one sparing me a glance. Some had sprinted off, searching for survivors. Another few stood with the officers, forming a defensive perimeter. Tinkers scanned what they could, taking soil samples along the way.

One of them looked towards us, a kid in red and gold armour. He looked away as soon as his visor landed on me, suddenly more interested in the dirt.

They had this in hand.

“Very well.”

Exalt’s shoulders sagged with relief at my concession.

Only then did I notice how the other heroes had arranged themselves. The ones that sprinted away had formed a patchy ring around the pair of us, while the capes examining the dirt had attempted to subtly reshape the landscape to provide some quick cover. Most were trying extremely hard not to look at me, fingers twitching next to their weapons, or angling for a good shot with their powers.

Out here in the middle of nowhere, they could spin the story, limit the damaging aspects, tell the public that I had been taken out by String Theory's blast. The average Joe hadn't questioned it when they'd told the world that the Simurgh had poisoned Alexandria's mind, why would they start asking questions now?

Yet despite everything, I could only respect their dedication. They knew they would lose. They were willing to try anyway, just in case I was the monster they thought me to be. No matter. I'd already come to a decision, and their impressive crossfire would be unnecessary.

With my mind made up, I stepped back, leaving the heroes behind. I could be the sacrifice again, if it kept them all functioning at their best. If it kept the _Protectorate_ functioning at its best. The greater good came first, always.

I took two paces away before Exalt cleared his throat, halting me in my tracks.

“You’re still wearing the armband.”

Oh. So I was.

The clasp seemed harder to remove now than it ever had. Exalt held out his hand, and I gently lowered the band into his palm. His fingers seized it and tugged the device away, before he strode off towards the other heroes.

For the second time that day, I walked away from the organisation I’d helped build from the ground up.

Somehow, it hurt worse than before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey you! Do you like Parahumans fiction and artwork?! Then why not try the new Parahumans Zine, a collaborative effort by thirty five of the fandom's coolest kids and also me to create a whole bunch of canon-compliant stories and art pieces for Earth Bet. Try it, won't you?:
> 
> https://parahumanzine.tumblr.com/post/636685203187892224/the-time-has-come-thanks-to-all-the-contributors


	9. What Do You Do When the Battle is Over?

“We’re going live now to Julia Andrews, our correspondent on the scene. Julia, have there been any changes?” 

The news anchor handed off to a video feed, showing the same appalling scenes they’d been parading around for the last three days. I rubbed my eyes, debating if it would be better or worse to watch them again. 

“Thanks, Simone. We can’t get much closer than this, they’ve cordoned off most of the area, but we’ve still seen a laundry list of heroes coming and going throughout the day. Any avid cape watchers out there can tick these off their bingo cards…”

I muted the television, silencing whatever dross they were about to start spewing. The major news networks had been filling the airwaves with round the clock coverage of the breakout ever since someone saw a known Birdcage prisoner standing in the middle of a city centre. String Theory’s light show hadn’t helped either.

The PRT had been putting out public relations fires the entire time, hosting press conferences with various directors and the handful of heroes who hadn’t been drafted into helping. More than a few requests for interviews with me had been sent to the Houston office, after word got out that I’d been involved in the calamity. Those had been firmly rebuked by the department, who stuck to the line that Eidolon’s assistance was a one-time thing, and that they had the situation under control while I ‘enjoyed’ my retirement.

With little in the way of tangible facts, most of the media coverage had devolved spectacularly quickly into speculation, with a healthy dose of paranoid fear-mongering. What would happen if X prisoner made their way into the White House? How many lives could be lost if prisoner Y attacked a town? Here’s a graph showing deaths that hadn’t happened, but might if the stars aligned and the pundits somehow predicted something correctly for a change. Watchdog had some of the best Thinkers in the nation; if they couldn’t figure out the motivations and destinations of all the escapees then some hack journalist in an ill-fitting suit certainly couldn’t. 

Images of a desolate crater rolled by yet again. There had been a couple of recorded incidents with other escapees since I fought String Theory, but they were smaller events. None of them quite appealed to the general public’s love of visceral destruction in the same way as flattened hillsides and barren landscapes.

It probably didn’t help that I’d spent much of those seventy-two hours watching my own version of the events, as the laptop balanced on the arm of the chair rewound my helmet camera’s footage yet again. 

As hobbies went, it wasn’t the healthiest. Reliving every fight, memorising each misstep until they became so ingrained that they would feature in my dreams… 

But what else was I going to spend my time on? Knitting? 

The video started up again, giving me ample time to argue myself in circles about failures both real and perceived. Should have moved through the observatory faster, but if String Theory had left any other surprises behind they would have caught me unawares. Should have waited for the reinforcements, but they wouldn’t have arrived in time and what could they do against her weapon once fired? Should have destroyed the weapon immediately, but that would have left the drones free to act against the hostages.

Speak of the devil, one of the hostages appeared on the muted television screen, another pre-recorded segment that the news insisted on trotting out every half hour like a show horse.

The sound came back with a click, and I regretted it immediately.

“And did you work here?” The reporter had shoved her microphone so far into the civilian’s face that they were practically eating it. All to ask the most pointless of questions.

The man wearing a lab coat and an ID badge from said observatory nodded morosely. “Yeah, yeah I did. Three, almost four years. Yeah, would have been four years next Tuesday.” 

I groaned and rubbed my eyes again. I’d barely slept for the last three days, and my reward for staying awake so long was listening to a two-bit journalist drill a traumatised man for pointless details.

Not keen to let her prey go, the reporter swooped back in with more inane questions. “And were you a local? Did you know the people who lived here?”

Typical vulture. Find out if the man had lost friends or loved ones, maybe make him cry on television, all to add a slightly more emotional twist to a wrung-out story.

My hand fumbled with the remote before he could answer, but the look in his eyes was telling enough. Thank you for rescuing me, Eidolon. Thank you for keeping a meagre handful of people alive instead saving everyone like you’re supposed to. Thank you for making me live with this guilt for the rest of my life, wondering why you saved me instead of so many others.

Another old habit of mine. Some people exercised; I beat myself up on a regular basis.

This time, I couldn’t even soothe the ache with the old mantras. There was no extra well of power, waiting just out of reach for me to tap into. Nothing to push me that little bit further when the chips were down. Echidna had proved that.

This was as good as I was ever going to be, and every day I’d wake up a touch less effective than the day before.

Maybe that was why I’d had difficulty sleeping. A misguided belief that if I kept a closer watch on my powers, never closing my eyes, then I’d be able to stop them from dwindling.

My stomach chose that moment to remind me that self-flagellation often worked up an appetite. Part of me wished I could mute that, too.

Heaving myself out of the armchair, I wandered through the tiny living room and back into the kitchen. Weird smells were coming from the fridge again, I should probably clean that out at some point. The freezer was predictably empty of everything bar ready meals. I flicked one box out, and found the expiration date had been some time in the middle of 2008. A few old take-out containers littered the counter tops, but those had been emptied of everything resembling food.

Eventually, I settled for cereal. Frooty Toots, part of a well-balanced breakfast. It hadn’t been all that long ago that I’d featured on the front of the box, one of Eidolon’s last marketing campaigns. It was aimed towards a much younger audience than myself, but something had possessed me to get it. Publicity stunts like that used to irritate me a little, but after a lifetime of seeing my cape persona on billboards, in newspapers, on television... maybe the thought of never seeing it there again had made me buy the sugary food.

In went the cereal. In went the milk. I took my culinary masterpiece over to the sink and ate a slow spoonful while watching the street outside through the window. A reflection in the glass showed the clock behind me. 3:00pm.

Scoop. Raise. Chew. Lower. Repeat.

Some kids were playing in the street, throwing a ball around and whooping whenever one of their friends failed to catch it.

Scoop.

The steady hum of the air conditioner permeated throughout the house.

Raise.

A dog started barking two doors down. Another howled back from the opposite end of the street.

Chew.

There were some birds in the sky. I didn’t know what breed. 

Lower.

This cereal absorbed the milk too quickly. Now it was all mushy. Maybe I should order a different brand next time? 

Repeat.

Why on earth was I still doing this? 

The spoon clattered against the side of the sink as I emptied out the bowl, watching the remnants swirl their way down the drain. Was this it? My glorious ending? Eating cereal over the sink, watching the world go by and concerning myself with nothing but inane mundanities? 

Three days must have been long enough for the Protectorate’s cooler heads to prevail. I could contact them, get them to… 

To do what, exactly? To beg that they give me my old job back? To politely forget everything my doppelganger revealed? 

I’d always helped, hadn’t I? No-one could have handled the String Theory debacle better. They still needed me. They wouldn’t admit it, but they still needed Eidolon.

 _I_ still needed Eidolon.

Heroism was all I’d known. Piece by piece, I’d sacrificed David’s life to let Eidolon do what the world needed him to do. Hobbies, and relationships, and love, all of it had been given up in the name of doing what was right. Sleepless nights spent at the office, trying to track down a serial killer before they struck again. Always being the first into a natural disaster and the last out, spending hours combing through the wreckage to find people trapped beneath. Never complaining, being the good soldier that they needed me to be.

It had been worth the sacrifices, every second of it. Because the people out there, they spent their days in a world that did its best to break them. In terms of raw strength and versatility, none of them could match me. Most didn’t even have powers of their own.

But they still woke up every day, and they went to work, or to their families, and they _lived._ Knowing at any moment, a parahuman warlord could take over their homes, or they could be an unfortunate casualty of a cape fight. They still went out and tried their best, because they knew when things seemed darkest, the man in green would be there.

That’s what Eidolon had been. A symbol, in the classical sense. Something that gave people hope, that let them forget about the troubles of a dying world and smile for a change.

I’d spoken with the others about the idea of legacy before, but I didn’t think they’d truly grasped the idea. It wasn’t about having statues made or crowds singing my praises.

It was something more intangible than that. A beautiful feeling, that things would work out in the end. Knowing there was someone out there holding back the worst of the world and making everything a little less bleak. So that even a kid, trapped in his own body, in a backwater town that thought him little more than a useless cripple, could find a reason to smile.

And now it was gone.

The public’s faith was wavering. They’d been watching me grow weaker for years. We’d hidden it as best we could, but they were starting to draw conclusions. String Theory had only accelerated the process.

Now I would never get the chance to fix that. Exalt had made the Protectorate's position there extremely clear. All those years of service, giving up everything I had and then giving up even more, until I gave up the only thing that still mattered. His words came to the fore, driving the other thoughts from my mind.

_"You’re a lightning rod for disaffected capes.”_

He’d been right. That was the worst part. The Protectorate needed to be at their best, and that meant they needed me to stay out of the way. Publicly I was retired, and walking away again must have been the correct decision.

It had to be the correct choice. I couldn’t afford to be wrong at this juncture.

But despite all the arguments I’d made over the last three days, it still didn’t sit right with me. There was a crisis out there, a clear and present danger to millions of people, and here I was eating fruit-flavoured garbage and _hoping_ that abandoning them had been the best choice.

There had to be some way to contribute. Maybe I could go out into the city, patrol the streets and free up resources that way.

That idea was entertained for all of three seconds before I snorted in derision. The notion of the world’s strongest hero skulking around in alleyways waiting to catch muggers was flat out laughable.

I sighed. Standing here wouldn’t accomplish anything. I needed a distraction, something to clear my head and stop the circular thoughts. Ideally before one of the neighbours caught me staring out the window and mistakenly took that as a sign to start a conversation. Small talk was not one of my specialities. Especially when I’d been ‘living’ next to them for the better part of twelve years, and still didn’t know their names.

Perhaps a phone call? That seemed to distract most people.

Ten minutes and far too much searching later led to me finally locating the old contacts book, which had been tucked away in the bottom of a shoebox for some reason.

Paper ruffled as I flipped through the pages. Well, page. Singular. A double side of A5 held all the contacts I’d ever written down, and the rest of the book was as empty as the day it had been gifted it to me.

One by one, my finger tracked down the list, crossing off names along the way. The paltry handful of people who were both trustworthy and provided enjoyable company had been whittled down over the years, lost in the never-ending struggle of defending civilization. Even more had been swallowed by the ravages of time. I drifted back to that first generation of capes, back in the eighties when we were on top of the world, and wondered just how many of us were still around.

A single name stood out from its counterparts, and I found the phone already in hand before common sense caught up. 

Of all people, I doubted he would want to talk to me. Keith had cut ties with us after the Echidna fiasco. We hadn’t tried to contact him since. Maybe if we’d told him what the inner circle was doing years ago, he wouldn’t have been so upset about being kept out of the loop.

Perhaps he was feeling as adrift as I was. Losing Rebecca, the breakout so soon after retiring, forced to watch as others did the work we should be doing...

Maybe time would have helped? A few weeks to process things, to clear his thoughts. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to mend that fence? 

The number was entered before I could talk myself out of it.

The dial tone sounded on the third ring.

I slid the phone into its cradle, and went back to the armchair. The helmet footage was still paused where it had been left, watching a lightning bolt shoot up into the sky. Mute figures danced on the television, gesturing at a graph nobody cared to read.

Once again, I looped the video back to the beginning. It was better than doing nothing. The background noise of calamity was soothing, in an odd way. It washed over the room, almost letting me forget the horrible truth that I’d spent three days trying to ignore.

A liability to Cauldron. Ostracised from the Protectorate. A hero in name only. Nobody to even talk to.

What was I supposed to do now? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so concludes the first arc of the Great Escape. Hope you've all been enjoying the story so far, and I've been loving the response this silly idea has been getting. Lots of positive feedback :)


	10. Interlude: The Warden, the Warlord, and the War Criminal

Great metal beasts circled overhead, their wings solid and inflexible. Preprogramed subroutines guided their flight across the mountain pass, a little invention of his own, designed to cover this entire section of the wilderness without a single drop of wasted fuel. Ten ships decorated in a variety of colours, the future of parahuman warfare, brought out to face one hell of a crucible.

Like birds of prey, they bided their time, patiently waiting for a chance to swoop. Part of him, a shameful part that he was still learning how to temper, felt a swell of pride at the sight.

The Dragonflight, assembled in all its glory. They’d even rebuilt the Azazel in record time.

Engines roared as he continued onwards, hacking back the undergrowth with the tip of his spear. He didn’t bother looking up as the Cawthorne Mark Four and the Kulshedra sped away through the sky. Their positions would remain marked inside his helmet regardless of distance.

A hissing noise spooked a nearby hare, who turned and ran as vents opened across his suit. The stored heat dispersed as he surveyed the clearing. Grass hadn’t been trampled. Only heartbeats detected belonged to animals. Sonar bounced off too many trees to be of much use. Tracks had vanished three hundred feet back. 

Another hiss and the vents sealed. His eye cursor selected the first contact in the list, and placed the call.

“Dragon? I’m running blind out here.” 

Text immediately appeared in the bottom right of his display. Her speech was still impaired after the clusterfuck in Brockton. He’d made a few tentative steps towards fixing that, but every tiny change he made could hurt her. Make too many wrong changes, and she could end up beyond his ability to help altogether. As if he was trying to perform open heart surgery with one hand and defuse a bomb with the other.

The trepidation he felt only worsened knowing that Saint was still out there, especially after the bastard had hurt her in such a public way. He’d volunteered for the team being sent to track the Dragonslayers down, and been firmly rejected. Too close to the situation had been the cited reason.

Too likely to wring Saint’s neck had been the subtext. Even he’d picked up on that.

In an ideal world, he’d be out there and she’d be somewhere safe, away from this manhunt.

In the real world, he knew she was her own woman, and any attempt on his part to stop her from helping would either be politely dismissed or ignored outright. They were wired too similarly to just sit back and watch.

_I see. Mind if I double check your helmet footage?_

The file had already been sent before she’d finished asking for it.

“I think some wide area surveillance might be in order,” he said, acutely aware of just how empty his sensors were.

_We’re inbound. Our specialist says she’s ready._

He left the window open, his fingers flexing around the haft of the spear. Another set of scans ran in the background as he let out a breath. Four days of continuous hunting was starting to take its toll, even on him. Despite their best efforts, the results were still mixed.

The PRT did now have a sizeable number of recaptured prisoners to boast about, showing an increasingly vocal public that they had something resembling a handle on the situation. But for those in the know, most of those inmates had been the easy captures. The ones that ran headlong into the defensive line, or the idiots who had been so drunk on escaping that they didn’t cover their tracks. But a large majority were still out there, and those remaining villains were either tough pieces of work, or smart enough to duck out amidst the chaos.

Someone would have to sweep the country to unearth the craftier monsters before they managed a repeat of String Theory’s performance. He didn’t have any other plans.

The digital window lit up again as gusts of air began to buffet the trees around him, leaves swaying in the sudden breeze.

_Dropping the payload. Mind your head._

This time he did shift his gaze towards the air, the sky obscured by bright red panels lining the undercarriage of a larger craft. His lips twitched upwards as the Melusine Mark Six descended. Dragon’s humanoid body would be at the controls.

A panel on the side retracted, and the air filled with buzzing. Hundreds of flying insects poured forth from the gap, the swarm rapidly thinning as they spread out across the woods.

Defiant’s smile faded. Dragon wasn’t the only person onboard that craft.

_Wide area surveillance initiated. Care to patch into our communications?_

“No,” he replied, perhaps a little too forcefully. Talking with the newly dubbed Weaver was challenging at the best of times. He’d flubbed it back at the high school, his apology coming across as rushed and insincere, but given the circumstances he’d cut himself some slack there. Then he’d messed up again, trying to play hardball with her after Alexandria’s moronic gambit. After that, she’d been in prison and he'd been rather preoccupied. Trying to talk to her now, when Dragon couldn’t whisper in his ear about all the pitfalls he’d inevitably walk headlong into sounded like a recipe for disaster. 

_I can’t play intermediary between you two forever, you know._

“Understood.” 

_You could at least tell her it was your idea to let her help out here. She still thinks it was mine._

“I’ll take it under consideration.” 

He could have sworn the Melusine’s engines sighed as the ship repositioned, following his heavy footsteps through the forest. It hadn’t taken long to get the higher ups to sign off on letting Weaver accompany them. Some of the Directors had wrung their hands, but legally they didn’t have any grounds to deny the request. Weaver was officially a Ward, and in times of crisis, Wards could volunteer to assist.

The problem was that they’d tried to deny it at all. Dragon’s reputation had taken a major blow as the news of the breakout had spread, and some of the more opportunistic ladder climbers in the PRT had begun trying to oppose her in little ways. Even now, supposed ‘specialists’ were examining the Birdcage, searching high and low for any way to blame Dragon over imagined negligence.

She’d served them dutifully for years, and the organisation was happy to throw her under the bus if it gave them a convenient scapegoat.

His gauntlet creaked, his fingers tightening. No, it wasn’t right to think like that. The idiots who thought Dragon was responsible for this mess were the minority. Chevalier had come out in support of her, and the rest of the Protectorate understood her worth. Wilkins and her ilk were rightfully outnumbered. 

Another deep breath, as he allowed potential solutions to the problem to fade away. He’d been tunnelling again. At least he was starting to recognise when it happened.

Shifting the spear, Defiant continued on through the trees, letting his focus switch back to the current goal. One of Watchdog’s thinkers had reportedly had a tummy ache when examining this cell of the map, which warranted cape intervention. Appraiser had backed up the claim, saying that the whole area felt crimson. Experience had taught him that most likely meant whoever was hiding here was not an immediate threat, but potentially problematic if they weren’t nipped in the bud. 

_Weaver says she’s got something. Southwest of your position._

“Got it. Thank you.” Defiant turned on his heel and paced further into the forest, paying no heed to the brambles scratching harmlessly against his suit.

_Thank her, not me._

“She can’t hear me.” 

_That can be easily fixed. Shall I patch you in to our communications?_

Defiant gave a humourless chuckle. Dragon could be awfully stubborn when the mood took her. Not that he could throw any stones in that department.

Natural light became harder to find as he advanced, the canopies above intertwining and growing thicker. The ground beneath him was littered with roots and fallen leaves, yet none of them appeared damaged. All factors pointed to a prisoner being here, yet there wasn’t a single shred of physical evidence. Two conclusions could be drawn from such information. 

Option one: Watchdog, Weaver, and his own intuition had been wrong.

Option two: he was walking into a trap.

“Dragon? Possible Master situation. I think my perceptions are being messed with.” His spear unfurled to its full length with a series of clicks. “Use my suit’s cameras. I’ll need you to be my eyes.” 

The remote access request popped inside his display and he accepted without a second thought.

_Keep going. Thirty metres straight on._

What little light remained slowly evaporated with each step. His implants itched.

_Turn your head, I need a better view._

Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Perfectly normal trees in a perfectly normal forest.

_Switching to thermal._

A beetle landed on his shoulder. He didn’t brush it off.

_Do you see that?_

His gaze swept through the trees. They looked just like every other tree he’d passed.

_There, tucked away in the branches. Don’t look up, you’ll spook him._

Keeping his helmet pointed towards the wrong tree, Defiant watched as a red targeting circle blinked into view, marking a location partway up an empty pine. Deliberately stepping the wrong way, he twisted a hidden panel on the spear’s body, lowering the weapon to keep its reforming head out of view.

_Four metre fall from that branch. Painful, but not lethal._

He thumbed the trigger. 

_Please try to be gentle with him._

“No promises.” 

In a single fluid motion, Defiant spun and fired the grappling hook from his spear, the tines snapping open mid-flight. He wasn’t surprised when the chain went taut and a nasally curse ripped through the air.

Instantly, the forest shifted, leaves tearing free of their branches to spin rapidly around him. A cocoon of greenery enveloped his little slice of the forest. He watched idly as every leaf swirled around the chain, several touching the grapple but none managing to dislodge the device.

He wasn’t impressed. Another press of the trigger and the chain began retracting. The nasally scream ratcheted up a few decibels.

The whirlwind of greenery stopped just as quickly as it’d started, and the forest finally resolved into clarity. His scans began returning the signs he’d been hunting for. Crushed twigs, torn roots, all the trademarks of a man on the run who had no idea how to conceal himself without powered assistance.

A pained whimper drew his attention, and Defiant finally released the grappling hook’s hold. Pale blue eyes lined with dark rings glared up at him from the ground, a sallow face decorated with a patchy moustache. A sharpened stick, its end roughly carved into a point, had landed nearby. Amateur hour ambush tactics.

Dragon had already opened the databases before he even opened his mouth to ask. Facial recognition pinged their prisoner easily enough. Marcus Redfellow, age thirty-nine, used to go by the name Hoax. A rogue who focused on performing shows and other parlour tricks.

_About time our luck changed._

He nodded, scrolling through the rest of the entry. A known Master whose power was labelled as sensory distortion. Sight, sounds, smells, touch, even the tastes that others could feel were all within his capability to adjust. A strong power, but still limited in many ways. Namely, he had a fixed radius. Anyone viewing his tricks outside of that range would be unaffected.

Dragon had the man’s number from the moment they’d stepped into the forest.

His hands went to work, cuffing his latest captive and reading him the abridged version of his rights through the suit's speakers.

The final log in the database entry popped up as he pulled Hoax to his feet, the gaunt man swearing and screaming the entire time. Arrested in 2007 for attacking the headquarters of a rival entertainment company. Reports from the event showed that Hoax used his powers in the middle of the workday, before blocking the doors and setting the building on fire. Twenty-eight men and women perished, completely oblivious to the danger until they passed out from smoke inhalation.

Defiant cinched the cuffs a little bit tighter.

_Wait. Weaver says she can still detect someone._

Hoax was roughly shoved back to the ground as Defiant’s spear magnetised, leaping to his hand.

_Borrowing your sensor suite again. Sorry._

“You never need to apologise. Where are they?” Defiant whispered, even though no-one else could hear him with the vents shut.

 _Hiding in the sagebrush_. _Your nine o’clock._

A shimmering glow enveloped his left calf as the nanothorns activated, severing the vegetation between them in a single kick. The spear jabbed downwards, eliciting a muffled shriek from whoever was hiding there.

Defiant turned on his speakers. “Out. You’re under arrest.” 

Trembling hands rose from the remains of the undergrowth, held above the head of a woman with very pale skin. Golden blonde hair framed vibrant green eyes, already filled with unshed tears. Odd protrusions stuck out of her head, and Defiant paused for a moment. A half-recalled memory tugged at his mind.

_Oh, Paige..._

The singer. Now it all came back to him. Dragon had been furious over the young woman’s incarceration, a frequently discussed topic that Colin was wishing he’d paid more attention to at the time. Back then, all he’d felt was mild annoyance at the pop star’s plight taking valuable time away from their collaborations. He’d uttered some meaningless platitudes, made token attempts at improving Dragon’s mood, and not so subtly tried to nudge her back towards working on his combat prediction software.

He lowered the spear. She didn’t seem relieved. Her shoulders hunched a little more, tension still seeping through her body at the knowledge of what would be coming next.

Four days of being hunted, the closest thing to freedom she could reasonably expect to have for the rest of her life, before returning to the cage.

A beetle crawled over the leg of her prison garments. Paige yelped before slamming her jaw shut with an audible click.

Defiant holstered the spear entirely, pulling out another set of handcuffs. Her composure wavered, and the first tear in the flood fell free.

_I’m cutting the visual connection. I can’t watch this._

“It’s okay. I’ll handle things from here,” he subvocalised. At his normal volume, he addressed the singer.

“For what it’s worth, we’re both sorry things turned out this way.” 

Paige hung her head, scrunching her eyes shut.

“Dragon still doesn’t believe you deserved to be imprisoned there. I’m in agreement.” 

A choked sob forced its way out of her sealed lips.

“Some fucking help you were! Useless prissy bitch! Couldn’t even stop the fucking Tin Man!” Hoax writhed in place, face down but still exceedingly vocal. The words washed over him, the corner of his brain that cared about jeers long since reassigned to more important tasks.

Then he stilled. One step away from Paige, who had ceased trying to hold back the tears, Defiant stopped.

Dragon was still connected. She wasn’t looking through the suit cameras anymore, but the audio link was there. He glanced back at Hoax. It’d be a stretch, but if he could pull it off...

Hurriedly blinking through the relevant documents, Defiant called out for his partner's attention.

“I have reason to believe this is not the real Canary.” 

The young woman opposite him looked up through a veil of blonde locks, eyes still shining.

_What?_

“Dragon, historical records indicate that Hoax was a solo operator who was notoriously difficult to work with. It’s highly unlikely he’d partner up with another cape.” 

_Well,_ _that’s true, but not exactly relevant right now._

Another request for visual access came through. This time, he denied it.

“Witness accounts of Hoax’s crimes from 2007 show strong evidence that his distortions can continue to affect someone’s perceptions for up to fifteen minutes after the initial use of power has subsided. Correct?” 

_That’s been confirmed, but what does that have to do with- oh._

“And of all the Birdcage inmates that have been recaptured so far, have any of them surrendered peacefully? Without making an attempt at resisting?” 

_Colin, that’s sweet of you to try, but it won’t work._

Another camera request. Another denial. He’d need to give her some plausible deniability for this to work.

“Humour me. How many?” 

_None, so far._

“Okay. According to Hoax’s files, while his powers can affect all five senses of those around him, they cannot mimic the more esoteric abilities of other capes. If this was the real Paige Mcabee, she would have used her own power by now.” 

_Colin, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, I really do, but that’s a fragile argument at best. No-one would believe it._

Underneath his helmet, Defiant smiled. Hoax was still cursing up a storm in the background, but the singer was staring at him curiously.

“One more question. According to Parahuman Response Team regulations, what are the correct protocols for dealing with a probationary hero who has encountered an enemy Master?” 

_...I could kiss you right now._

PRT handbook, page 287, subsection three, an addendum to the infamous Master and Stranger protocols. His old self might have been a stick in the mud, as a certain teammate used to say, but he’d been a stick who’d memorised the entire book cover to cover.

They’d come up with a similar plan in the event that Weaver was sentenced to the Birdcage, using his probationary status and Dragon’s reputation to do the right thing. It had been unnecessary in the end, but the idea had stayed fresh in his mind.

“As such, I intend to escort the confirmed prisoner back to the nearest secure site, before submitting myself to immediate personality testing.” 

_As the nearest on duty hero, I hereby agree to your proposal. Selecting a landing zone._

Subsection three explained in no uncertain terms that probationary heroes, after engaging an enemy Master, were to report back to their superiors immediately for examination. Too many supposed heroes had broken their parole, only to claim after the fact that they had been Mastered into breaking the rules against their will. The addendum had been a rather ham-fisted way of dealing with the problem, but he wouldn’t fault it now. 

The rule could be waived if there were still enemy combatants nearby, of course. But if there was just an illusion left behind, then the rule applied. It wasn’t a watertight argument, but it did give him just enough leeway to work with. More importantly, it spared Dragon from any further fallout in this prison break fiasco. She’d tried to view the scene through his cameras, it wasn’t her fault that the clearly mentally afflicted hero on probation had refused her.

Besides, the PRT had been watching them like a hawk ever since they’d threatened to walk in the wake of Weaver’s identity being outed. They couldn’t rightfully complain if he was too willing to follow their own rules.

“We’ll have to keep the Melusine grounded and restrict further operations in this sector until we can be certain of my mental state.” The beetle left his shoulder, wings fluttering.

_Weaver’s pulling her swarm back. I might have left Canary's court records on an open terminal. She didn't seem happy reading it._

Nodding in approval, Defiant yanked Hoax upright for a second time. Canary hadn’t moved, staring dumbstruck at the half of the conversation she’d been privy to. 

She hadn’t deserved what had happened to her. Paige wasn’t a soldier in the perennial war between heroes and villains. She was a civilian who just wanted to sing. A bystander caught in the crossfire, railroaded into a hellhole for a genuine accident. 

That shouldn’t fly, not anymore. This new Protectorate was supposed to be better, free from the rot that had corrupted the original. The old Armsmaster would have slapped her in cuffs and marched her away without a second thought. 

But what was the point of everything he’d been through if he just sat back and watched this miscarriage of justice all over again? 

Canary still hadn’t moved, staring wide eyed at him. Hoax started writhing around in his grip, screaming the entire time. Good.

Barely audible above the screeching of a maniac, they growled out a single word.

_“Run."_

Defiant didn’t look back, forcing his way out of the undergrowth with a single prisoner in tow. Hoax didn’t make it easy, struggling every step of the way, until he was eventually lifted up like a ragdoll and placed in a fireman’s carry.

The Melusine was already on the ground by the time they made it out of the woods, a ramp extending from the side of its cockpit. Two figures waited for them at the top, standing on either side like an honour guard. The one in green nodded as he passed. The one in white simply stared.

He was barely over the threshold before the panels closed, cutting off the natural light from outside. LEDs embedded in the floor illuminated with each step, and the glow of a half dozen monitors cast long shadows behind him.

A thick metal bulkhead opened, allowing entry to the larger rear portion of the craft. Transparent walls divided the area into six neat cubes, with a thin corridor running down the middle. He knew the specifications. Five airtight cells, shock-absorbent, flame-resistant, a rapid response containment facility.

They were all empty right now, after dropping off their last batch of cargo. Carefully, he set Hoax down inside an empty cell, sealing the door shut behind him. One sixth of the ceiling’s sprayers activated, coating the chosen cell with white foam. The sound quality in the room improved dramatically.

A soft gauntlet against his shoulder caught his attention. Her hand shook slightly against his suit. Still stuttered.

His fingers gently latched onto hers, holding her steady. It was the least he could do.

_Thank you._

She was wearing the verdant helmet along with the rest of the powered armour, but he liked to think she was smiling under there.

Light footsteps echoed across the hall, and Defiant reluctantly looked up. Weaver stood at the doorway with her arms folded. She was still outfitted in the basic costume they’d thrown together for her press conference. Light grey fabric, sleek armour panels that Dragon had 3-D printed only moments before the new Ward had gone out on stage, electric blue highlights with matching lenses for the mask. He could just about make out her pupils through the lenses, a far cry from the dull yellow orbs that had never given a hint about the person underneath. She had one of Dragon’s armbands on her left arm, almost concealing how the fabric of her costume bulged at the wrist, hiding her monitoring bracelet.

“Why?” 

Weaver hadn’t raised her voice, but that didn’t stop her question from reverberating across the room.

That was the question. Why had he let Canary go? Why had he contributed another lie to an organisation that was supposed to be built on truth and transparency? Why, with her hatred of both him and those same lies, had she recalled her swarm? 

Such a powerful word, why. A thousand possible answers stemming from a single syllable. He approved.

Silently, he released his partner. The spear detached from his back, and he pressed it into Dragon’s arms. Metal clanged against metal as they walked towards the sixth cell. Sturdier than the others, reinforced to a greater degree, with electromagnetic defences and a Faraday cage of their own making. A haze of heat covered the entire cell, a superheated layer on top of the walls, like the inside of an oven. They had been making progress on the cooling systems, but for now heat remained one of the few viable counters to the nanothorns.

Dragon opened the door and he headed in without complaint.

Weaver stared at him with what he guessed was curiosity. He never could read her properly.

When he finally answered, it was quiet, the words meant for them and them alone.

“Because some people need a second chance.” 

The cell door sealed shut, and Defiant settled in for a long wait.


	11. Swing for the Fences

“Two visits in a single week? I must truly be blessed.” A voice, warm and aged like mulled wine, filled the little church. 

I whispered a farewell to the Lord, and opened my eyes, silently shuffling over on the wooden bench. Father Prescott sat down heavily in the vacant space. He took his time sorting himself out, and I was thankful for the extra few moments to get my thoughts in order. 

In all honesty, I probably shouldn’t be here. The good Father knew I only dropped in sporadically, in times of great need. An unfortunate necessity on my part. Couldn’t risk building up any kind of relationship, lest he connect the dots and figure out the man behind the mask. The Doctor would argue that I’d probably told him too much already. 

But his words were always soothing in times of doubt, so just this once, I’d made an exception. 

“Father, I’m sorry for intruding so often,” I said quietly. He rolled his eyes fondly and waved his hand dismissively. 

“Apology accepted, even though it’s totally unnecessary. The door is always open.” Father Prescott brought a finger up to his chin, and tapped away as if deep in thought. “Although that would explain why it's always so cold in here.” 

I nodded, more out of habit than anything. 

“Still feeling troubled? I’ve got some more platitudes somewhere, if you’d like?”

I smiled slightly, a sad smile that didn’t reach my eyes. Sometimes I didn’t know what I’d do without the old vicar. Maybe the Doctor had been right and there was too much of a rapport here already. 

Or maybe I could have one thing in my life that wasn’t all doom and gloom. 

“Not this time. My problems are bit much for kind words to fix.” 

The vicar nodded, his face the picture of understanding. “I’m happy to listen if you want to talk. Or I can disappear if you’d like a private word with someone else.” He tilted his wrinkled head towards the raised altar, and the large crucifix hanging on the wall behind it. 

“Talking sounds good.” Better than arguing myself in circles for another day at any rate. 

Father Prescott didn’t rush me, waiting patiently as I put the words together in a way that made sense. There were powers that could do the same thing far more efficiently, but using one of those would defeat the purpose. 

“Do you remember what we spoke about? On Monday?” I asked, glancing over to meet Father Prescott’s eyes. He nodded once. 

“Things have gone downhill since then.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Coming from anyone else, it would have been the most generic answer possible, but Prescott sounded genuinely apologetic. 

“There’s a problem that’s been consuming my time and focus. I guess you could call it a loose end from my old job. Something that... I want to tie it up. Leaving it as is doesn’t feel right.” 

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. Part of the reason why I always enjoyed my infrequent trips here. There was no pressure, nobody pushing you to do or prove something. 

“I made an honest attempt to deal with it, but things didn’t really work out. My old colleagues weren’t happy that I’d come back to try and fix it, so now the problem is still there, unresolved, and I can’t do anything about it without upsetting a lot of people.” 

The wooden seat creaked underneath me as I shifted in place. 

“My hands are tied, and everything I try would just make things worse. Never liked feeling so... powerless.” 

We sat there for a while, under the eyes of God. I could only hope that the unfortunate souls String Theory had caught in her blast had made their way to him. When all was said and done, I’d have to find a way to apologise to them. Them and too many others. 

“Blessed is the man who perseveres in trials because, for when he has been proved...” Father Prescott uttered, looking at me expectantly. 

“He will receive the crown of life that he promised to those who love him.” Not the first time I’d heard that verse. 

“Sorry. It seemed appropriate for the moment.” 

I shrugged off Prescott’s apology. “Appreciate the intent. But it’s rather difficult to find solace there right now.” 

“Then, if I may, would you mind if I bent our no-advice rule? Just this once?” He sounded so earnest when he asked that I couldn’t find it in myself to refuse. 

“Just this once.” 

“Thank you. It’s the same advice I’ve given to, well I’ve lost count how of many people by now, but it does the trick.” 

I quirked an eyebrow. 

“David, it’s unheard of for you to be here twice in a week. Whatever this is, it’s clearly eating away at you. So go back to this problem, confront it head on, talk with these old colleagues of yours. Because I don’t think you’ll be happy until you do.” 

“It’s not that simple.” 

“Because we have a way of overcomplicating everything. Everyone does. But you can’t just bury your head and hope it’ll go away. You’re stronger than you think, and even if the journey is painful, it will all be worthwhile once you reach the end.” He smiled, and I chuckled mirthlessly. I wanted to believe that, I really did. 

“Now go, face your problems, and come out the other side happy and healthy.” Father Prescott nudged me with his elbow, and I went with the flow, pulling myself upright. 

“Thank you as always, Father.” 

“It’s what I’m here for.” Prescott did offer me the chance to stay and enjoy the peace while he set about printing off some new pamphlets for the church, but I’d taken enough of his time already. Ten minutes later, I was in the back seat of a taxi, running his words over in my mind. 

The newfound feeling of determination almost lasted the entire journey back to the house. Almost. 

Clouds were covering the sun by the time I finally stepped out of the car. Not that it did anything to stop the humidity. July in Houston was not a pleasant experience. 

Air-conditioned breezes were a pleasant relief once I opened the front door, a momentary reprieve for the weary.

Then it was back to the same four walls that had taken it upon themselves to become my new friends. An opened jigsaw puzzle sat on the kitchen table, still in pieces. The last straw before I’d gone to church. Someone had missed the memo during a secret Santa one year and actually bought me something. A cardboard home for the ‘04 line-up of the Houston Astros, staring out at me in a thousand pieces. 

I didn’t even like baseball.

It had sat on a shelf gathering dust in the years since, until I’d finally dragged it out into the sunlight. There wasn’t much else to do after deep cleaning the house, watching reruns of an old show that hadn’t aired for a decade, and analysing recordings of my old encounters until my thoughts ran in circles. 

I’d even ordered new furniture. It had been decided that I’d be spending a lot of time here from now on, and the usual airbed wouldn’t cut it anymore. Made a change from sleeping at the office, I supposed. 

Idly, I flicked the television on for some background noise. The talking heads were trying to stir the pot some more, but it was clear to see that they were running out of material. The twenty-four seven news deluge surrounding the escape was still ongoing, but most of it was repeats with the previous day providing little in the way of new tragedies to exploit. Public opinion must have been wearing thin with all the speculation too, because they’d resorted to replaying the same handful of interviews over and over again. 

Most of those involved PRT spokespeople pointing to the statistics of all the dangerous prisoners they’d caught, boldly ignoring questions from the savvier reporters who actually knew how to count. 

They also deliberately did not mention how most of the recaptured inmates were merely dangerous, while most of those still free were catastrophically dangerous. If I recalled the old files correctly, we’d only apprehended a single cell block leader. 

A wave of my palm, and the jigsaw pieces flew back into their box. No, not we. _They._ I wasn’t a part of this anymore. They’d made that abundantly clear. 

My hand rubbed at my scalp. Couldn’t even muster up the energy to feel angry anymore. I could understand the decision. If Rebecca had still been in charge, she would have made the same call. Cutting loose a single cape to preserve the strength of the entire organisation. 

Cold comfort that was. 

The jigsaw box returned to its dusty home as I slunk away from the kitchen and settled back into the armchair. Lacking anything better to do, I clicked the remote a few times and dismissed the constant stream of barely-news for something a bit more distracting. 

Steve Harvey was staring blankly into the camera as a game show contestant made their answer into an innuendo. An update on a capeball scandal; apparently the Moonwalkers were in trouble for taking another unexplained absence. A pyrokinetic proudly displayed his burnt pizza to some unimpressed judges. The road shattered as one of Hollywood’s pretty boys fell off a bridge into the arms of someone who looked a lot like a Narwhal rip-off. 

As a cartoon me danced on the screen and the Protectorate Pals theme music blared, I finally gave up on channel surfing and just shut my eyes. It wouldn’t help. I’d reached the stage of boredom where even sleep was unappealing. But it was better than letting my brain melt from watching this nonsense. 

I didn’t want to admit it, but perhaps that was all I could do now. As much as I appreciated Father Prescott’s advice, I couldn’t confront this problem head on. The Protectorate wouldn’t want me back on the manhunt.

Focusing on preserving myself, trying to stay in the best condition possible for the next two years, that might be all I was good for now. I’d balked at the idea before, but having some kind of goal had to be better than sitting here glassy-eyed at the idiot box. 

Might as well book myself in with a taxidermist. Here’s the stuffed Eidolon, prepared and waiting for a single chance that might never arrive. 

Cartoon me reminded the audience about the importance of recycling. Whoever they hired to do the voice was a terrible impressionist. 

Maybe I could have done something differently with String Theory. But that way lay madness. I’d end up going over every decision I’d ever made, just as I had so many times before, pointing out each failure that could have had a slightly better outcome. Eventually, I'd end back at the decision that started it all, wondering if perhaps I should have refused the Doctor. 

My train of thought drifted as the Doctor came to the fore. Perhaps Cauldron had a task that needed doing. I was a liability to them on Bet, but there were countless worlds out there. Maybe I could help people on a few of those. 

I could practically taste the rejection of my proposal before I’d even left the seat, but I went and suited up anyway. They wouldn’t want me spending my powers at all, but I’d feel better making the attempt at using my time constructively instead of watching those tacky shows. The channels changed as I pressed the remote’s buttons telekinetically, back to the news. 

I was halfway through fitting the cloak when something ragged caught on my fingers. The hem had been damaged along the side, a tattered edge instead of its usual straight line. Must have happened back at the observatory. I frowned at the sight.

The mild annoyance at my costume being less than pristine fled as cartoon me gave a thumbs up to a small child after they learned the importance of friendship. The remote was already flying as I fastened the helmet. 

“Door me.” 

The block of cheap plastic slid into my grasp, but nothing else happened. I glanced around. No hole in the fabric of reality. 

All three powers fell away on instinct. This didn’t feel right. The Clairvoyant had never failed to pass on my requests before. 

_"Door_ me,” I requested again, taking care to enunciate each syllable.

Nothing. The same four walls looked back, uncaring. The hairs on my nape picked up. 

Had something happened to Cauldron? An invasion, removing our mobility? It worked as an opening move. Take out the Doormaker, the organisation would be crippled. Contessa was presumably next, the clearest danger to anyone assaulting the compound. If they could get past her then we really would be in trouble. 

My fist clenched, still clutching the damn remote. 

“We’ve just received word that Director Maladkar of the San Francisco PRT is about to take the stage with an update on the current situation.” I glanced over at the television; an interviewee was being hurriedly cut off as the news anchor chased this latest story. The scrolling banner proclaimed that another PRT conference was about to begin. At least it would give them something new to talk about. 

“We’re going live now to our parahuman correspondent, Thomas Vale, out on the trail in California. Tom, over to you.” The anchor disappeared, replaced with a shaky camera feed. 

Two men stood in the shot. The one on the left was a slender male, dressed in a skin-tight costume and a pair of large mechanical gauntlets, sweating visibly as the camera shook. Bloodstains were visible on his suit while the gauntlets sparked and hissed. 

But my eyes were drawn to the one on the right. A bundle of muscle, with extremely broad shoulders and a shaggy beard, wearing a sleeveless workout shirt and pants that seemed a size too small. 

“Afraid your boy got a bit side-tracked on his way to the conference,” a brusque voice with just a hint of an Australian accent called out, the camera shaking from the force of his words. “And now ol’ Thomas has come down with a terrible case of neck pain, so I’ll be delivering your latest report!” 

An alarm was ringing in the video, so loud that I barely heard the whimpers that followed. Frequent shouts rippling in the background didn’t help either. The smaller cape scrunched his eyes shut and whispered something the camera didn’t catch. He forced a smile onto his face before opening them again. 

“G-good afternoon. I’m Pugilist, with the Protectorate Garrison Division...” he trailed off, swallowing hard, “and we believe it’s time we came clean about some events.”

The name tickled a memory in the back of my mind, but I couldn’t place him. 

“And don’t think about cutting the connection, otherwise I’ll get mighty cross.” The mass of muscle let out a throaty chuckle. “Now Pudgy boy, why don’t you tell the people what we’re doing?” 

He was enjoying it. Every word. The sadist. 

Sweat beaded off the hero as he tried admirably to maintain his composure. “W-well, Gavel wanted to use this platform to spread the word of his noble work.” The larger man nodded along as his ego was forcefully stroked. The camera dipped slightly, giving a glimpse of two more heroes standing just off to the side, holding hastily scribbled out teleprompter cues. One of them was sucking in breath, a massive indent on their chest having shattered the armour there, while the other was very clearly placing all their weight on one leg. 

“And he claims it is time for America to deal with the villainous infestation that we have allowed to grow unchecked.” Pugilist's eyes were darting every which way, looking for an escape route. 

Gavel grinned, a toothy smile that didn’t match the look in his eyes. “Bingo. You cowards have really let the country go to the dogs. Villains have gotten bold since I’ve been gone. Never would have handed over an entire city to some teenagers on my watch.” 

“It is d-disgraceful how the PRT keeps sweeping these problems under the rug. Hiding them away instead of solving them.” Pugilist spoke in fits and starts, reading prompts that were being written slightly too slowly. 

“Too bloody right mate.” Gavel slapped the hero on the back, and a spray of crimson erupted from their mouth. He kept talking as they fell to all fours, coughing and spluttering. “Like my good buddy here. Pudgy was a very naughty boy, weren’t you Pudgy?” 

Wet, hacking coughs filled the silence. 

“See, Pudgy told me a lil’ story. About how he liked to skim a bit of cash here and there. Take some of that good ol’ tinker made stuff the Protectorate had and sell it under the table.” 

Another cough and a sickening groan answered. 

“Sure, it made him a bit of spending money. But then it all went wrong, didn’t it? Some of that gear was used to knock over a hospital. And that spending money gave them a trail straight back to Pudgy.” 

Gavel looked directly into the camera, the smile sliding off his face. “Should've gone to jail. ‘Cept the PRT doesn’t really care about that. They sent Pudgy off to this dingy corner of the states, tucked away out of sight, and hid as much of the mess as they could.” 

His eyes swept over to the side, staring down the two capes with cue cards. “Same story with these bastards. Should’ve been punished, and they got a free holiday to sunny California instead.” 

He gestured, his massive fingers pointing down the lens. 

“They’re criminals, plain and simple. And I think its past time that you all got a good reminder of a criminal’s place in this world. It is not upright, with their boot on your neck.” 

Gavel raised one large boot to demonstrate his point, resting it on the prone cape.

“It’s not down on their knees, begging for mercy.” Gavel crouched and grabbed at a length of rebar. Tugging it forwards, the two cue capes toppled into frame, crying out as oozing wounds on their legs became noticeable.

“It is six-foot underground.” He raised a gargantuan arm, his palm filling the screen. Someone screamed.

When Gavel came back into frame, he was the one holding the camera.

“The Protectorate might be too chickenshit to get their own hands dirty, but I still understand what it means to stop a villain. You don’t hide them away and pretend everything is hunky dory.” 

He tutted, wagging a giant finger from side to side. “You make an example of ‘em.” 

Gavel lifted the camera overhead, and the remote slipped from my hand. Great walls of concrete and steel, a domed city sealed away from the rest of the country for the danger it posed.

I knew that place. I’d helped _build_ that place.

“This little message goes out to all the villains thinking they can rise above their stations. That ain’t gonna cut it anymore. So run back to your hidey holes, and pray that I don’t find you.”

The camera lingered on a large white two painted on the side of the wall, and the sudden realisation of where I knew Pugilist’s name from hit me like a truck.

“Because if I do, you’ll meet the same fate as this chump, thinking he’s safe in his little government funded utopia.”

Gavel shifted his weight, and the transmission abruptly ended as a final snap rang in my ears.

The television cut back to the news studio. The presenter didn’t speak for a long moment, their mouth slightly open in shock. When the words finally returned, they spewed out a torrent of apologies to viewers before I stopped listening.

Father Prescott had been right. I needed to be there. If I ignored this it would eat away at me forever.

This wasn't me re-joining the manhunt. This was me responding to a crisis situation. I could still do that. It was different. Besides, the Protectorate would understand. Their response time wouldn’t be fast enough. They’d appreciate the help. Perhaps they’d even forgive me if I handed over Gavel and his target.

“Door me. _Now."_ Finally, the request was granted. Not an attack on Cauldron. They must have seen this coming, denied my earlier attempts so that I’d catch the broadcast. They could have at least warned me.

I stepped out into open air, and gazed down at a domed town in California. No matter. Assigning blame could come later. Right now, the world needed a hero. I finally had a goal again. 

Stop a homicidal lunatic before he reaches a second homicidal lunatic.

Because if Gavel made it to Pastor before me, then this entire situation would suddenly get a whole lot worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas everyone! You must have all been good this year, because Santa's delivering the start of TGE's second arc.


	12. In Like a Lion...

Dust billowed in small circles as I touched down, landing silently amidst the blaring alarms ringing across the landscape. A gargantuan construction of steel and concrete stared back as I stepped forwards, walls sixty feet high supporting a reinforced domed ceiling that encompassed an entire town. 

Elevators and covered staircases sat on this side of the wall, providing access to a large ringed platform that circled the dome. The security garrison could watch the interior from there, providing advance warning if a group was getting too close to the walls. Scissor lifts and motorised cages were installed at regular intervals around the ring, allowing access to the very top of the dome. I couldn’t see it from here, but at its very apex the dome contained a large shaft, designed to let the quarantine teams drop padded crates or packages of supplies through. Small parachutes would slow their fall, stopping the items from crashing against the ground. When not in use, solid titanium shutters would slam closed to prevent anyone accessing the shaft from within. 

Dumping food through a hole in the roof like a zookeeper throwing meat into a lion enclosure wasn’t my first choice for a solution, but it was either that or abandon those still trapped inside. 

Especially since back then, nobody had really understood the need for quarantine sites. The public had only had the site in Indiana to compare it with, a city infamously plagued by riots, where three villains would pop up for every one you arrested. There had been shock, certainly, when the walls first went up there, but it had come after months of intervention from the National Guard, the PRT, and eventually the military. Protracted legal campaigns and media blasts had let the idea germinate in the public’s mind, letting people understand the rationale behind sealing up an entire city. 

In contrast, this second site had started off as a rush job, the walls being thrown up as quickly as possible while we evacuated as many of the inhabitants as we could. Instead of calmly explaining why certain steps had to be taken, we were forced to backtrack and tell the public that an entire town had been effectively removed from the map. Villains numbering in the triple digits could capture the imagination, but here we could only point to one man being responsible for the quarantine. Our public relations teams hadn’t even been allowed to give all the details about Pastor himself or how his powers worked, in a bid to stop religious extremists and so-called ‘cape chasers’ from trying to reach him. 

Not that it had really helped. The secrecy only fanned the flames, and we’d been surrounded by civil rights groups demanding that the walls come down. They’d argued, not entirely incorrectly, that the people inside deserved better than to be trapped like animals. When their legal challenges had eventually failed, they started organising raids of the dome instead. 

We’d had to flood the entrance facilities with cement after too many people tried to get in, and the shaft at the top had been our next best solution for supplying those inside the town. 

I looked down from the ring, towards the two bunkers that sat flush with the ground, clearly reinforced to a greater degree than the others. The entry facilities themselves. Inside those had been a labyrinth of corridors, security checkpoints, and multiple vault doors built in a similar manner to those used by Endbringer shelters. 

It said a lot that we’d scaled _up_ from the shelters when building this place.

It said even more that the maniac I was chasing had taken one look at the sealed doors, decided they weren’t enough of a challenge, and broken through the wall instead.

I glided towards the breach, sparing a glance to my right along the way. In the distance I could just about see the hazy shapes of a barracks, surrounded by barbed wire fences. The resting quarters for the garrison.

Halfway between the wall and the barracks lay an abandoned news van on the crest of a small plateau, a hole punched clean through the hood and down into the engine block. Half a dozen bodies lay around it, but my eyes were drawn to the two oversized gauntlets, shredded and broken as they were, littering the wreckage.

There wasn’t anything I could do for them now.

Someone yelled in pain, followed by the tell-tale deafening blast of a flashbang.

But I could still help their comrades-in-arms.

Precious seconds ticked by as I glided to the site of Gavel’s incursion, the Californian plain already transformed into a battlefield. If I recalled PRT doctrine correctly, the officers should have sealed the breach with containment foam while the capes held back any powered opposition from inside the quarantine site. Not a long-term solution, but enough to buy some time for more permanent measures.

Globs of foam certainly clung to the shattered wall, a vain attempt to seal a hole large enough to drive a car through, but most of the substance had hardened into mounds on the ground. Muffled cries came from the forest of foam stalagmites, and it wasn’t difficult to guess what had been encased inside.

Quarantine Site Two, its security overwhelmed and defences shattered by a single man. An entire Protectorate team, rotating squads of PRT officers, and he’d blown through all of them. A part of me was almost disappointed in how little they’d managed.

Only four PRT security officers were still standing amidst the concrete dust, working in tandem to take cover behind fallen chunks of brickwork or fire what few armaments they had left. Two members of the team had the foam sprayers on, but they were being conservative with the shots. Running low on ammunition, perhaps. One other was firing a handgun through gritted teeth, the recoil of every shot shaking a limp shoulder. The final member of the quartet had ditched professional weapons entirely and was swinging a piece of shorn rebar, a wild eye visible through a cracked helmet.

Their crude baton collided with a crunch against the skull of something that could almost pass for a jaguar, if seen from a distance. Up close, there was no mistaking the elongated claws, or the misshapen face. Four bulbous eyes swivelled in separate directions, two tracking the prey in front of them, the others watching for danger on the beast’s flanks. The skin underneath each eye was cracked, creating jagged lines down its head where no fur grew. Fangs too large for its mouth kept the creature from closing its jaw all the way, yet that didn’t stop it from catching the officer’s arm between twin sets of scimitar teeth. It started dragging the man backwards, ignoring the gunshots pinging off its side as it retreated with prey in tow.

Wild Eye screamed as the jaguar’s drool sizzled against his armour, tiny holes visible in the hardened material. His rebar swung recklessly back and forth until it collided with the jaguar’s snout. The beast growled in response, dropping the arm to snatch the steel bar instead. Jerking back in shock, the officer scrambled up as the jaguar shook its head violently, flinging the metal away. 

“I’ll take that.”

Every face turned as I twirled the rebar in my right hand, the left already wreathed with a green hued energy. Wild Eye let out a sigh of relief at the sight that trailed off into an almost hysterical laugh. 

The jaguar abandoned its hunt and immediately pounced for me instead. Fangs snapped at my face, the drool sizzling as it splashed near my feet. I didn’t blink.

Its claws swiped at my midsection, and I almost laughed. Too easy. 

Something cracked, and the jaguar howled. Its claws had been chipped; the force of its blow redirected back into its own paws. I’d learned from Behemoth just how useful kinetic energy redistribution could be as a defence. 

A second attack, its paw aiming for my head. The kinetic shield wasn’t the only power that activated as it made contact, and- 

_The air feels different today. Warmer. He tastes it against his tongue, lolling from the side of a mouth that’s too big for his face._

_Warmth tugs at his insides, and makes his head hurt to think about it. Warm and bright and beautiful. That’s what father had said. When the promised time comes, it will be warmer than he’s ever known, brighter than he could imagine, and so beautiful that the world would cry happy tears._

_Father had tried to help the world, make it warmer himself, but all that did was upset the monsters._

_So_ _he'd told them to be patient. Their family would grow in ones or twos, until the day they could all face the monsters together. There would be laughter and singing, and the world would sing along. They would all be happy together._

_One big happy family._

_So why did it hurt to think_ _about?_

-Touch-based postcognition, to round out the trio. A power so unexpected that I’d held onto it to figure out what on earth my agent had been thinking. 

Paws firmly on the floor again, the jaguar readied itself for another strike, two of its eyes wincing as it placed too much weight on the shattered claws. 

Fortunately, its next attack fizzled out before it had begun. The muscles in its legs twitched, and its misshapen face twisted in exertion. Another twitch, and the limbs began to buckle, collapsing in place as it became unable to peel its legs away from the ground any longer. Almost as if the force of gravity was steadily increasing on its body.

It hadn’t been all that long since I’d last had a gravity power, but this one felt weaker than the one I’d employed in Brockton. As if I’d be lucky enough to get a stronger variant. 

“Harris, Argyle, bury it!” The officer with the dislocated arm bellowed out to their fellows, and the two foam officers hurried to comply. Fur began to recede as they approached, but the four eyes and tangled maw of overlarge teeth remained. A man sat where the jaguar had once been, considerably smaller and lighter than his bestial counterpart. 

A nice attempt. Most Changers relied too heavily on their changed body. Gravity’s hold on him weakened to prevent an injury, but by then the foam had already started to coat his prone form.

Only once the jaguar man was well and truly covered in a solidifying block did I let the verdant energy dissipate.

"Now, put your hands above your head.” I turned to the officer with a dislocated arm. The helmet was distorting their voice, but they sounded female. 

“Are you in command here?” 

She paused a little too long before answering. “As of now, yes. Corporal Jessica Monroe. Hands, air, now.” Her gun came back up in an instant. 

“A pleasure,” I replied without any emotion, ignoring her request. “Lock this area down, I’ll deal with the situation in there.”

“I said hands above your head!” she shouted. 

Keeping my arms down, I tilted my head at her. “Why?”

She jerked her head back, the gun pointed at me all the while. “You saw the big cat. Pastor’s people have all sorts of tricks up their sleeves. Can’t be certain that you aren’t one of them.” 

In any other situation, her caution would have been commendable. Right now, it was just infuriating. 

“I don’t have time for this.” Every second she wasted let Gavel pull further ahead. Assuming a slight delay on his transmission, the time it took to safely descend and extract the officers... perhaps Gavel had five minutes on me. I briefly considered discarding the abilities, but gravity manipulation, kinetic redirection, and postcognition could all be game-changers in their own right. I was so wrapped up in my own thoughts that I almost didn’t register the running footsteps behind me. 

“Unknown parahuman, I am ordering you to stop!”

I glanced back at the Corporal, and saw her gun still levelled at my spine. Wild Eye and her two foam spraying subordinates hurried to flank her, but they clearly didn’t understand what was happening. 

“This is lunacy. Stand down, all of you.”

One of the foam officers lowered the barrel of his sprayer. His voice had more of a Californian accent than the others, presumably the only local in the group. 

“Ma’am, are you certain about this? It’s Eidolon.”

She stood her ground, body turned slightly to hide her injured arm. “It’s someone who _looks_ like Eidolon. That’s no guarantee.”

“But he helped us. Stopped the thing that tried to eat Sullivan.” Foam sprayer gestured the barrel towards Wild Eye, who frantically nodded in agreement. 

Corporal Monroe moved to shrug, then thought better of it. “A ploy. Gets us to lower our guard, gain our trust by turning on his friend.”

“They aren’t that intelligent, are they?” Wild Eye chimed in, a hint of shock in his voice. 

She shook her head at the comment. “You’re still treating this like Ellisburg. We aren’t containing monsters here, we’re containing _people_. People can be smart. They’ve pulled stunts like this before, chased their own members to the walls to sell the ruse.” Her voice shook slightly. “Then they grab whoever they can reach and pull them back inside.”

I assumed she was speaking from experience.

“But wouldn’t we see the gashes?”

“Sure. If he removed his helmet.” The corporal’s voice lifted slightly, phrasing it as a question. 

I slowly shook my head. Not an option.

The gun steadied in her grip.

“But he hasn't got anyone, right? If he’s going back in the dome alone, then...”

“You really want to chance letting him run loose? After everything’s that happened today?” She growled towards the foam sprayer, who looked suitably abashed even in a full suit of combat gear. 

“I just don’t understand how that helps if he is one of theirs,” questioned the subordinate, his voice more subdued, clearly torn between following a superior and potentially threatening the most powerful man in the world.

“You think I understand either?!” Corporal Monroe’s head snapped around to her subordinate, but the gun didn’t move. “You think I understand why a freak ran riot through our squad and broke through the walls? Or why _Eidolon_ of all people made it here before any of our support teams? None of this makes any fucking sense, so you’ll forgive me for not letting the strange cape out of our sight!”

Gavel was still on the move. This needed to be resolved quickly.

Some unspoken thing passed between the four of them before I could defuse the situation, and the other foam spraying officer stepped forward.

“Look, I’m sorry about this, but she’s right. If you are the real deal, then we’ll apologise profusely, but right now there’s too many unknowns.” To his credit, he did at least sound apologetic. 

He hefted the device away from the breach, back towards the open plains. “Our comms centre got a little busted up, but we did manage to contact the Protectorate. They’ll be here soon. If you want to wait, I’m sure they can vet you...” The anxious invitation hung in the air, unanswered.

If I left now, I could bring Gavel back to the heroes in chains, reseal the quarantine site, and maybe get a few of those in the Protectorate to reconsider their position on me.

Or I could stay here, watching impotently as heroes twenty years my junior flailed around in a situation they were unprepared for. It could be anywhere from ten minutes to an hour before they arrived anyway, and all that time Gavel would be having a field day.

I hadn’t come this far to sit back and watch.

Between one moment and the next, the four officers slumped, as if they’d read something in my silence. The unease was plain to see, despite the full suits of armour. 

“Even if you are who you say you are...” The corporal started her sentence, pausing to choose her next words carefully. “PRT or Protectorate personnel would be the only ones allowed inside. No independents.”

None of them could muster up the courage to look at me after that.

My patience finally ran out. Gavel had enough of a lead already, and I’d entertained this farce for long enough.

I made for the breach, hearing the click of safeties behind me.

“We don’t want to fight you.”

“Then don’t.”

I could almost feel the palpable weight of my reputation in their minds, torn between their duty and their trepidation at potentially shooting the most powerful man in the world. 

In the end, their hesitation made the choice for them. A shame. Indecision in this line of work could be a death sentence, yet they still couldn’t bring themselves to pull the trigger. I might have respected them more if they’d been willing to see it through. The courage to make the tough calls was an admirable trait to have. 

Eventually, their last reserves of foam fired to fill the hole, expanding and sealing the way out. A few stray droplets splattered against my cloak; the dark green material stained in spots by whiteish-yellow liquid. 

It didn’t matter. I was already through. 

Artificial clouds in a manmade sky. Yellowed grass sprouting around telephone poles that connected to nothing. Air slightly too cold and consistent to be natural. 

For the first time in over a decade, I stared out at a domed town, and pondered on the irony that its name was Freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A big thank you to Omega93 for betaing this chapter, and telling me that it doesn't completely suck. His reward is a set of fake abs.


	13. Heroes of Yesterday

Clouds drifted lazily by, without any wind to push them. No two were the same, some small and fluffy, others so large that the lights inside dimmed as they passed. Sleight of hand on a massive scale made the false sky look further away than it really was, a charming backdrop for those inside. Just for a moment, someone could believe they weren’t trapped in here. 

But look at them for too long, and a cloud would reach the edge of the dome, suddenly vanishing from sight as the projections ran out of space. Then the mirage shattered, and the cold realisation would set in once again. 

The thought kept me company as I stepped carefully through Freedom’s streets. It wasn’t just the artificial sky that sold the ruse. The entire town was in on it, presenting a veneer of normalcy just barely draped over the horrendous truth. 

Single storey houses sat on the edges of the town, with the kind of sizeable gaps between each of them that you just couldn’t find outside of rural communities. The paint was peeling on every one but signs of life were still there. The windows looked empty, but that was no guarantee. 

They lined the edges of what had once been the main road through town, broken tarmac marking the trail. Most of the free space next to the road had been given over to vegetable plots, small allotments or tiny farms. Except the light in here wasn’t natural, and the plants knew it. Little to nothing was growing in those plots, save for the sturdiest weeds. Despite that, the ground looked to have been tilled and treated relatively recently. 

Billboards were stuck to the side of a few larger buildings, still advertising goods that hadn’t been sold for years. They’d never been replaced. Another little nudge contributing to the lie. 

Trees bereft of their leaves stood at the side of the main path, leading the way into a few fields that had become trapped here too. Bark broke and flaked away as my cloak brushed against the nearest. It was surprising to see that they’d lasted this long. Perhaps they were simply too stubborn to die. 

A chain supermarket passed by, the only one in sight on the outskirts of Freedom. It had never been a large town, maybe five or six thousand strong at its peak, but big business had been slowly encroaching on it when the walls went up. 

The floor to ceiling glass windows had been shattered and the insides ransacked, shelves long ago emptied now thrown to the floor. There were holes in the exterior where sheets of metal had been torn out, leaving jagged gaps behind. The roof was missing entirely, the top of the building baring itself to the heavens. Had Gavel been here? 

The reasoning behind the postcognition finally clicked. Not the easiest way in the world to track someone, but I’d worked with worse. 

Part of me expected an ambush to burst out at a moment’s notice, but nobody intervened as I crossed the distance to the supermarket. On closer inspection, it was easy to make out the burn marks lining its metal skeleton, in the few spots where the struts themselves hadn’t been destroyed. Grass and weeds were soaking up what artificial light they could as they tried to fight their way through cracks in the floor. 

I checked over my shoulder once more, and reached out for the closest wall. My fingers brushed against the surface, and- 

_Tension lies thick in the air, a haze of calm before the thunderstorm. I exhale, palm splayed flat against the top of the store. Something shuffles beneath me, barely audible unless you know to listen for it. The last of the strike teams getting into position, cloaked by a girl who grants invisibility to those she touches._

_The situation couldn’t have come at a worse time. Protectorate Critical was being pulled in too many directions at once, thinning the coalition force that was supposed to handle events like this. Alexandria was stuck in her alter-ego's role, trying to provide international aid to the Chinese after Behemoth struck one of their cities, and being stonewalled at every turn. A roving band of murderous lunatics were slowly working their way up the east coast, keeping Legend in New York to act as a deterrent. Barely half the number of capes we’d had in Indiana, and top it all off, we couldn’t bring our nonpowered officers into the town itself. Not without risking a catastrophe._

_I breathe out, and steady my footing. No matter. We’ve faced worse odds before._

_Three beeps sound in my earpiece, a starting pistol tearing the silence to pieces._

_My hand sinks into the rooftop, passing through the tiles like a stone through water, reaching out to grasp something that can only be described as the roof’s heart. I tug, and the roof retracts towards me, vacuumed up through my hand. Half a second later, I’m left hovering in mid-air clutching an orb the size of an apple, made of slate and asphalt._

_Dozens of eyes gaze up at me, out from a supermarket now open to the elements. Their stunned silence stretches a single moment to an eternity. I look back, at the shoppers clutching their carts so tightly the metal bar is cutting into their palms, going through rote motions despite their legs sagging from exertion. One is halfway through placing an empty box into their cart, a smile plastered on their face even as their eyes glisten with tears._

_Lining the edges of the store are the ones we were too slow to help. The men and women with deep cracks running along their faces. Dressed in employee uniforms, complete with name badges._

_I throw the orb before any of them react, separating its parts mid-flight to form dozens of thin platforms. The platforms slide under the feet of every civilian I can see, scooping them up and lifting them out of the line of fire as the broken employees begin to respond._

_Spheres of lava shoot upwards, into the airborne crowd, and I move with inhuman speed to intercept the projectiles. The barrage is unceasing, blobs of superheated material catching me in the chest and eating away at the armoured underlayer. I can feel the burning sensation on my skin before it suddenly reverses, my body and suit resetting themselves. My teeth clench, and I dive in front of the next shot. The pain was only temporary. I’d heal, they wouldn’t._

_Some are still clinging to the handles of their carts, begging me to stop. They kick and scream, terrified out of their wits. A few are shouting about innocence and how they aren’t responsible for this, their words going unheeded by the faux employees._

_I redouble my efforts, ripping their platforms upwards even as balls of lava melt away at my face. They’ll thank me later._

_Metal screeches, something roars, but it's muted next to the screaming of a child. One of his minions has cottoned on to what is happening, a young man with the kind of muscles that could only be obtained through powers. He’s dressed like a shop assistant, wearing beige pants and a dark blue polo, both of them torn as his body keeps shifting outwards. A Hulk type cape, to borrow the informal classification system the officers used. We really needed something more official._

_One of the last platforms to leave gets ripped apart, his gargantuan fist clenched around a small boy’s midsection. The supermarket’s walls detonate in places as the strike teams make their move, our own barrage of powers being brought to bear._

_A golden blur streaks past before I can stop them from firing. Another lava ball arcs up and I leap in its way, my shoulder colliding with the store as the momentum carries me forwards._

_The wretched creature sees the blur at the same time I do. It holds the kid in front of its face like a shield, while its free arm pulls back. Flesh splits and tears to let extra muscle through, its face contorted into a rictus of pain that it channels into another pained and animalistic roar._

_The blur bounces in mid-air, straight over the head of an awestruck child. It arrests its motion instantly, touching down behind them with no visible deceleration._

_My flesh burns amid the sizzling lava, but that doesn’t stop the edges of my lips tugging upwards._

_Light flashes and the brutish man_ _hits_ _the ground, shrieking as its exposed muscles bounce against the_ _floor._ _It scrabbles away as the store buckles under the force of our strike team’s crossfire._

_The sun breaks through the clouds as the smoke clears, a heavenly glow illuminating a resplendent bubble made of miniature octagons that fades with the press of a button. Its rays glint off a golden chest piece as the man inside the energy shield rises to his feet. Ocean blue chain mesh crinkles as he blows imaginary smoke off the barrel of a laser pistol, his other arm wrapped tightly around the boy who stares back with naked wonder. He smiles softly, the pearly white of his teeth offsetting the burnished gold visor. His voice stands out in the calamity, soothing and gentle._

_“You’ll be alright now, kid. The good guys are here.”_

_I roll my eyes. Hero was showing off again._

-My fingers ripped themselves away from the building as if they had been scalded. Vague memories, almost forgotten, returned to clarity. This hadn’t been Gavel’s work. 

For the second time, I’d been a first-hand witness to the evacuation of Freedom.

So many thoughts started to clash together in my mind that I barely noticed the supermarket fading into the distance, back into the past where it belonged. 

Buildings came and went, a cornucopia of chances for an ambush, but none of that seemed important any more. I don’t know how far I walked before my mind slowed down enough to think things through again. Evidently not far enough. Hero’s dazzling smile still lingered, a reminder that no matter how dark and desperate things appeared, it would all work out in the end. 

Except that easy confidence, that optimism, those had been stolen from us. His smile wasn’t dazzlingly white, it was bloodied and broken, the golden visor cracked as shock seeped through his body, and I try to put him back together again but his legs aren’t there any longer. There’s screaming and shouting, Legend’s trying to coordinate a response but I’m not listening because I can’t stop the bleeding and there’s just so much blood, so much that I can barely see where to aim before Alexandria crashes down on the other side of the street clutching her face... 

Wood shatters and I blink. A bench cracked and splintered, a bright green glow around my hand. 

I let out a ragged sigh as gravity releases its hold on the bench. It’d never been easy, thinking about him. Seeing Richard again like that, so vivid and colourful and alive... 

There was a reason I stuck to photographs of happier times instead of using these Thinker powers more often. They were too good at what they did. 

Despite the noise, nobody had come to investigate. Silently, I offered thanks to the Lord for that. Nobody could be allowed to see Eidolon in a moment of weakness. Even if they were trapped in this domed city, word would get out somehow. Couldn’t afford lapses like these. 

Humanity needed me to be stronger than this. 

I pushed onwards, drinking in as much of the town as I could. I’d even welcome a surprise attack. Anything to get out of my own head. 

Evidently, I’d walked far enough that the buildings had finally moved from sparse decorations on the landscape to something resembling a rural high street, all two-storey mom-and-pop shops where the owners would likely sleep in the second floor overlooking their stores. If you wanted to buy anything that wasn’t essential, you’d have to hope that the lone supermarket stocked it. Otherwise, you’d be facing an hour or two’s drive into the nearest hotspot of civilization. 

It reminded me of the backwater dump I’d grown up in. A place so remote that the concept of a black woman passing through was enough to turn heads. Even now I hesitated to call that cesspool home. 

An acrid scent wafted through the air, overboiled vegetables and burnt chicken making their presence felt as I spun to face the possible assault. 

The only thing in sight was the plastic door to a small home, banging gently against its frame. A sheet of metal with jagged edges hung in the space next to it, replacing a shattered window. Tense seconds passed before I lowered my guard. Caught unawares by a door and some cooking. Part of me pointed out that it wasn’t unheard of for parahuman abilities to have a scent component. That Ward, the power enhancer in the north east, she was proof of that. 

It was a feeble justification. I still wasn’t thinking clearly. 

I allowed myself a deep breath before cautiously opening the door, and peeked inside. 

The furniture was gone, save for a single folding deck chair. Most of the flooring had been torn up at some point, the planks ripped away so crudely that little pieces of wood still littered the ground. Chunks of the inside walls were missing too, wallpaper and plasterboard gone much the same as the planks, providing glimpses of the rest of the rooms. Even the frame holding what was left of the house together had been chipped in places, scratch marks clawed into the timber. 

A small pit had been dug in the centre of the mess where a blue fire burned. The lone chair faced inwards, towards the flickering flames. From the grooves in the dirt, it didn’t appear to have been moved for quite some time. 

It wasn’t much, but perhaps the embers brought them something akin to entertainment. 

An old bowl was hanging above the flame, suspended by a repurposed dish rack. The individual tines of the rack had been broken off to form a makeshift campfire spit, with two thin bars digging into the dirt while a third formed a horizontal beam for the bowl to hang from. Two clothes hangers supported the bowl, balanced inside their triangular shape as their hooks hung from the thin bar. 

Broth bubbled inside; a dark brown mixture that was steadily turning black as the ingredients broiled and burned. Little chunks of overdone chicken bobbed through the slurry, accompanied by flaccid stumps of broccoli. 

Tinges of green energy surrounded my hand and the makeshift kitchen, making the coat hangers rattle as their burden grew lighter, until it escaped gravity’s clutches and rose upwards. I caught the bowl, carefully moving it away from the flames, and-

_Glass shatters, tearing into his exposed muscles. He barely finishes shrieking before I body-check him again, charging at the speed of sound. The second hit launches him through the damaged window, into the first floor of a house. The pain lingers for only a moment before I force the reset._

_Hero dashes down after me, vents in the rear of his armour flaring and boots pulsing with a subdued light. His landing is considerably more graceful than my opponent’s. He glances my way, and I nod in return. Together, we vault the damaged window, him watching one flank while I cover the other._

_“Ah, guests. Will you be staying for dinner?”_

_Hero stumbles over the last few fragments of broken glass and I almost follow suit. A couple and their child are sitting at a posh dining table that fills most of the room, an array of crockery and dinnerware spread across its surface. The husband is looking at us with a forced smile, his chair at the head with his hand extended out, as if offering the men who just burst through his window a seat at the table._

_The husband’s smile tightens another notch before I can reply. His eyes dart to the side, then back to me. Pupils to the side, back to me, to the side-_

_I lean back just in the nick of time as an overly-muscled fist smashes through the space where my head had been only moments before. My leg comes up at Mach speed, directly into the man’s stomach. A blast of golden light finishes the job before he can recover, slumping to the floor._

_“You’ve really got to be more careful,” Hero mutters, his admonishment undercut by how he’s spinning his pistol before holstering it. At his normal cheerful volume, he answers the trio._

_“Sorry, don’t really have time for dinner right now. How about a nice vacation instead?”_

_The icebreaker falls flat as none of them move. The dad seems torn between getting up and staying seated, the mother’s arms are shaking, while the kid refuses to look at us._

_“Someone’s controlling them,” I mutter. Hero shakes his head._

_“Look at them. Really look. Powers didn’t do this.”_

_He slowly approaches the trio, his hands up in a reassuring gesture. I take his advice and focus, noting the small details. The husband warned us of an attack in his own way, still capable of moving and acting against the villains. The wife’s arms shake at irregular intervals, the movements slight and erratic, never falling into a pattern of motion. An abundance of knives litter the table and Hero isn’t facing his way, but the kid never takes the opportunity to strike._

_I look again, at the abrasions on their wrists that haven’t healed. At the tone of their pallid skin, far too pale for people living in California. At the array of dishes laid out across the table, yet only one of them containing food. Nowhere near enough to feed three people._

_He’s right. Powers didn’t do this to them._

_Why is that more unsettling than the alternative?_

_I stay back, keeping an eye on the slow rise and fall of the musclebound man’s chest. Long seconds pass as Hero tries to explain the situation, all too aware that we can’t afford to stay here forever. He keeps running into the same verbal wall, that they weren’t allowed to leave and when others_ _tried,_ _they all suffered for it._

_Something moves in the corner of my vision and I’m already in motion, enhanced speed pushing Hero down as a ball of lava flies through the shattered window. I catch it with one hand, pinning it tight against my chest to stop the spill over hitting anyone as my other hand braces me against the table, making a mess of the bowls and cutlery in the process._

_The scorched flesh abruptly fades, and I glance around to check if any spits of flame had made it through me. Hero’s already upright, twin sci-fi pistols pointing at the window. I murmur to him as the family begin to move, self-preservation instincts finally winning against whatever horrors they’ve endured._

_“Now who needs to be careful?”_

_Hero chuckles, the warm infectious laugh that’s won over scores of interviews and talk shows._

_“Not me. I’ve got Eidolon watching my back.”_

_Underneath the mask, I flash a little smile, and lead the way out._

-The bowl clattered to the floor, broth spilling out and seeping into the earth. 

Damn it. 

Damn this place. 

Damn Pastor for trying to play God. 

Damn Gavel for bringing his mad crusade here. 

Damn him. Damn that wonderful, shining, imbecile. Damn him for leaving us like this.

But most of all, damn me. 

The door clicks shut. The streets close in around me, growing larger as they build to an urban crescendo. The town centre isn’t far now. I can’t see the failed allotments any longer, the trees without leaves in the summer and the false sky is almost hidden beneath awnings. From down here, Freedom looks the same as any other rundown town. 

If only it had been content to stay that way. 

A far-off ringing echoes through the streets, a sound that should provide a modicum of comfort. A church bell, solemn and proud. But just like everything else in this blasted town, it had become warped, wearing its old skin to disguise what was lurking underneath. 

Pastor would be there. Gavel probably heard that too.

I broke into a run, trying to get my head into a semblance of order along the way.

Only when the bell’s chime had drowned out the sound of my own thoughts do I stop, breathing heavily a block away from the town square. I could see the church’s spire over the top of the buildings here, a dull eggshell white that’d long since faded.

Between a pair of buildings, a knickknack shop and a store that only sold hats, is an alley that’s concealed from view unless you were standing directly in front of it. I slipped inside, getting my breath back as the bell’s chime picks up in tempo, ringing in anticipation.

Wood banged against bricks as the bell finally fell silent. Voices rose to take its place, a chorus muttering words in unison that I couldn't make out from here. 

But for what? An event? No, Pastor didn’t think like that.

A service. His own demented take on a Holy Mass.

Part of me wanted nothing more than to break the man, force him to confront what he had done in the name of God.

But that wasn't why I’m here. The postcognition was starting to feel hollow, and I knew it was running out. I called on the power willingly, and slammed my hand against the alley wall, letting the memories wash over me-

_“Come on! This way, head for the trucks!” Hero’s holstered his weapons to better direct the last few civilians to the evacuation point. I appreciate the show of faith, trusting me to keep them all safe. It's only me watching their backs now, the strike teams retreating while we pressed on to rescue any stragglers. A risky endeavour, but certainly worthwhile._

_We finally caught the lava thrower, a young woman with deep cracks underneath her eyes and arms that had been melted down to reveal charred bones. She’s struggling weakly against her bonds, some handcuffs built from a gold alloy that only Hero seems to make. She hisses as the bones in her forearms make contact with the restraints, smashing her wrists against them in a futile struggle to free herself._

_I can’t help her now. Focus on the others. Then gut the one responsible for all this._

_As if on cue, two more of Pastor’s followers round the corner. An older couple, both with greying hair, and the harsh cracks in their skin that all his victims seem to possess. The man only has one good eye, the socket of the other glowing with an ethereal power, while the woman flickers in and out of sight. Every time I think I’ve got a lock on her she vanishes, only to appear somewhere else._

_I grit my teeth at the sight. They just keep coming, and I can’t afford to drop my powers without someone getting hurt before the new abilities kick in. They’ve been slowing down, a decade of crime fighting taking its toll._

_Shoving my arm into the wall of the nearest house, I tug at its heart to form another orb, the front of the building starting to compress, and_

_And_

_And_

_And_

_When I come to, I’m on the ground. Hero is in a similar position, collapsed onto one knee. The vanishing woman is lingering over him, a long blade in her hands that’s slowly working on the lava thrower’s bonds. She laughs, and it sounds hollow, like an echo in a deep cavern._

_Enhanced speed floods me, and I fail to move an inch._

_A single glowing eye comes into view, the old man grinning with a smile of broken teeth. When he opens his mouth, the back of his throat is lit up with the same glow coming from his eye. An immobilisation power._

_I cease struggling, and the old man cackles._

_His jubilation is cut short as I force another reset, punching upwards before he has a chance to blink. He feels fragile, in the brief moment when my fist connects with his eye socket. He staggers, losing his advantage as I send him sprawling into a wall. The old lady starts to flicker but she’s too slow, age and whatever Pastor’s done to her ruining her reactions, and I tackle her into an alley, hitting the brickwork on the way._

_She slumps, I reset._

_“Containment isn’t working,” I grunt, pulling Hero off the floor. He’s still reeling, but his helmet shakes in response._

_“Gotta stick to the plan. Get everyone out safely.”_

_“We can’t cover the transports if we’re being knocked senseless every minute.”_

_Hero grimaces, smoothing it out so quickly I almost missed it. "We’re almost done. Just have to hold on a little longer and we’ll be home in time for supper.”_

_Before I can answer, wood smashes against bricks and we both look towards the town centre._

_A congregation is steadily moving out of the church there, thirty odd capes all with the cracks in their skin, working their way down the steps and onto the streets. An honour guard, leaving the church empty._

_“...We can end this.” I glance back at Hero, conviction starting to flood my voice. “We can finish this, right now. You and I, we can take him.”_

_I’m already preparing to rush the church when Hero grabs my arm. “Too risky. If he does his thing again, we’ll be unconscious in the middle of a crazed mob."_

_“We cut off the head of the snake, we can save everyone. Isn’t a proper victory better than this botched evacuation?”_

_I can see the indecision warring underneath his visor. He wants to take the fight to the one responsible, but something’s holding him back._

_“What aren’t you telling me?”_

_Hero swears, pulling something out of his utility belt with his free hand. The congregation have all reached the street, fanning out. We won’t get a better shot at their leader._

_“We can’t kill him,” Hero forces the words out, and I can tell he doesn’t believe what he’s saying. He shoves something into my hand, a scrap of paper. I unfold it, and see writing that’s far too familiar for comfort. A stylised C, or the omega symbol tilted at an angle, underscores three words._

_Pastor Must Survive._

_“I found it inside my suit before we headed out today.” Hero reluctantly takes the scrap of paper back, a burst from his pistol incinerating it into ash. I look at him, and back at the tortured capes this maniac has created. The woman with her arms burnt down to the bone. The one-eyed man filled with an otherworldly glow. The young man at the supermarket, his flesh ripping away to let more muscle through._

_I can only force out a few words of my own._

_“They want him alive?!”_

-and I let the postcognition fall away, its job done. 

We’d argued afterwards, about how the situation had been handled. Doctor Mother had pointed to Pastor as a necessary example, that his capture would be a greater boon for the young Protectorate’s reputation than a kill. When that answer hadn’t satisfied anyone in the room, she made the case that without Pastor, it might be impossible to reverse what he had done to the people of Freedom. His victims were still alive, but if we took further action, there was no telling if they would stay that way. 

Alexandria had expressed frustration at the Doctor for using her life's work as evidence for letting the man live. Legend was furious that we hadn’t managed to pull everyone out of the city. Hero, he’d been more subdued. 

He’d confided in me much later that he’d begun working on his own way to try and reverse Pastor’s power. It was leagues outside of anything he’d built before, a bio-tinkering problem rather than a mechanical one, but that hadn’t stopped him. 

The prototype still sat under lock and key, buried along with the rest of his work. 

Only after he’d gone to a better place had the Doctor decided to tell me the truth. Pastor was a potential asset. Another in a gigantic line of long shots that might have an effect against humanity’s extinction. His powers bent the rules a little, providing a sliver of a possibility of a chance that he, or one of his victims, could be the silver bullet we needed. 

That was all there was to it. He’d been walled away because someday, his powers might make all the difference in the world. 

It had taken time to understand the necessity of assets like that. Longer still to make any kind of peace with it. 

I finally understood the real reason behind my agent choosing postcognition. These little reminders, they were necessary. Because no matter how I felt about the man, or his fantasy town, or his debasement of the Lord, none of that was important right now. Cauldron wanted him alive, and if Gavel got to him first, then everything this town had suffered would be for nothing. It might sting, but I wouldn’t sully the sacrifices others had made by falling short now. 

As the chanting rose in volume, I uttered a simple chant of my own. 

I hadn’t come here to stop Pastor. 

I’d come here to rescue Pastor. 

I could only hope that Hero would forgive me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Juff who has been providing spelling and grammar checks on all of these chapters. The story would be far less coherent without him. His reward is a super-soft Eidolon plushie.


	14. The Stories We Tell

“My faithful! My children! It is a blessing and a pleasure to see you all again!”

I slipped through the wide-open doors of the church as the fevered crowd cheered; a discordant wave of noise that only served to remind me just how badly Pastor had hurt his victims. Some cheers sounded distant, some bestial, a few hollow, yet all were too excited. 

“A day of remembrance, but also a day of hope. Remember the many years we have waited, cleansing and preparing ourselves for the journey ahead, and honour them with your actions today!”

An older woman raised her arms in celebration as I quietly seated myself on the end of the pew closest to the exit. Just a latecomer to the rabid festivities. 

Thick rimmed glasses sat on her nose with a shattered lens, but she didn’t seem to care. A young, athletic man was reflected in the broken glass, complete with deep cracks in his skin that ran from his eyes, wound around his shoulders, and ended halfway down his forearms. It would suffice as a disguise. Shapeshifting wasn’t exactly my forte, but I didn’t have time to wait for another power. 

I lingered on the mirror image for a moment too long, and the woman caught me staring. When she spoke, her voice seemed strangely drowsy, as if she were in a trance. 

“Almost time. Almost ready.”

Her smile seemed too wide to be natural, all molars that had yellowed from a lack of care.

Another cheer went up before I had to answer her. Over the heads of the raucous crowd in their wooden benches, I got my first look at the man himself. Pastor stood inside a pulpit near the front of the church, raising himself over others as he basked in their adoration. He looked heavyset without being fat, with fair hair that’d been roughly cut short, and skin that had gone pale from a lack of natural sunlight. 

But what drew my eye was the clothes he’d chosen. A cream ankle-length robe, the threads worn and fraying. He’d adorned it with a burgundy stole, a long strip of cloth draped over his back and cinched around the neck. 

Vestments. Holy vestments, the garb of a priest. 

He had the sheer audacity to pretend to be a holy man while unleashing demons on the world.

“Already our perseverance has been blessed. Our continued worship, so powerful and just, will finally be spread to the heathens!” 

I punched the air along with the others, grimacing on the inside. He’d learned about the breach. That could complicate matters. 

“The journey ahead will be difficult, but with my guidance, I know we shall not falter!” 

His voice wasn’t particularly charismatic, but it was loud, amplified by the acoustics in here. He reminded me of a televangelist pandering to his audience, twisting a few choice excerpts from the good book for his own gain. I could picture him now, offering false salvation with one hand and taking his follower's wallets with the other. 

“We have all suffered great hardships, each of us gathered here. Now our prize is within reach. I ask you, every one of you, will you reach out with me and seize our reward?!” 

The crowd’s response was more fit for a mosh pit than a holy sanctum. As they screamed their devotion, I glanced around the church, checking for Pastor’s possible escape routes if things went sour. 

His pulpit led down onto the chancel, a raised section at the front of the church. A few tiered benches lined the walls there, that would have hosted a choir once upon a time. I could just make out two recessed alcoves tucked away on the far side of the benches. Usually those would lead to the priest’s quarters or up to the bell tower, but it wouldn’t surprise me if Pastor had hidden a quick way out there instead. 

Past the alcoves, at the very back, sat the altar. It was cast partially in shadow from a large bronze crucifix mounted to the rear wall, looking out at the rest of the church. I let out a sad smile as the crowd roared. The Lord still watched over this house, twisted as it had become. I could only pray that he would provide succour for Pastor’s victims once this was all over. It was the least they deserved. 

My gaze started to wander from the altar, only to catch sight of the tapestry wrapped around its base. Most altars had some kind of cloth covering, often with simple decorations or a coloured trim, but there was something off about this one. 

From this distance and with so many people jostling in their seats, I couldn’t get a good look, but from back here it appeared to be roughly stitched together out of a myriad of spare materials. Most likely the leftovers from the supplies that were dropped weekly through the hole in the dome’s top. Burlap sacks were sewn to old clothing, torn up bedsheets tied to cuts of canvas, all looped around the altar. Little figures were visible on them, but I was too far back to make them out clearly. 

Pastor laughed, and his followers laughed with him. His speech had moved on while I’d tuned him out, and I almost missed the cue to laugh along. Thankfully no-one here had eyes for anybody except him. He gestured towards the side of the church, indicating another tapestry made in a similar manner. I’d dismissed them when I first walked in, thinking they were just part of the scenery. 

“For it was they who cast the first stone, the angels who lost their way! They who stole our families, our friends!” 

The little figures were easier to see on the wall’s tapestry. Crude drawings, growing fainter as ink steadily ran out, and replaced by whatever was left. Rough collages of people made out of torn food wrappers, or twine bent into a humanoid shape. When those had been depleted, they’d moulded handfuls of dirt to look like a person. 

Some of the images were drawn floating above their two-dimensional companions. Others fired blasts of permanent marker, or radiated splinters of wood. The day heroes came to Freedom, retold through some kind of midway point between an old comic book and a child’s art project. 

“These fallen angels do not feel remorse, nor empathy! They attacked our homes, jealous of our piousness and our way of life!” 

It struck me just how long it had been since someone had mentioned angels in a sermon. The word had been anathematized over time, to the point that even the most devout were hesitant to mention it. Attend a Christmas sermon, and you’d hear Gabriel referred to as a holy messenger, with no mention of the dreaded ‘a’ word. 

But Pastor wouldn’t know that. He’d already been trapped inside the dome for the better part of five years before Lausanne. The world had moved on, but Freedom hadn’t. 

“But God was with us that day! He gave us guidance, instructed us to create that holy barrier to keep the invaders out!” 

For the better part of thirteen years, these people had been trapped in here. Thirteen years, broken and shattered and stuck with the man who’d damaged them in the first place. Pastor hadn’t been idle for that time. 

He’d been feeding them a story. Freedom’s evacuation, viewed through the lens of a lunatic. He’d built a religion out of Christianity’s carcass and the Protectorate’s actions, with himself as the grand saviour. Deception after deception, crafting a semblance of what the town had once been with the promise that he could make it all better again. 

Someone stood up on the pew a few rows forwards. Even upright, they barely reached the heads of the people next to them. I felt my heart sink as they waved at Pastor. 

Young enough that their smile had gaps in it, missing baby teeth that had yet to be replaced. Wearing mismatched clothes too large for them, hand-me-downs full of little holes from years of wear and tear. Too young to have been here when we’d evacuated Freedom. 

Tiny cracks sat under their eyes, as they cheered along with the rest of his victims. 

The domed city and Pastor's lies had been all they’d ever known. 

Another cheer went up at Pastor’s words. The child looked back, and I bellowed along, letting the emotions wash away in the shout. Their innocent smile widened at the sight, and they stomped their feet in tune with the renewed chant.

I couldn’t kill Pastor. But he’d pay for this, somehow. 

“Already, our gracious Lord has seen fit to arm us for our glorious salvation! An apostle, sent to aid us! Just as Joshua broke the walls of Jericho, so too did his divine instrument!” 

One of the doors at the rear of the church slammed opened, and a giant of a man forced his way through a space too small for his bulk. A hulking figure of pure muscle, his stolen workout clothes slightly more torn than they had been in his broadcast, with a glassy look in his eyes. He had his own length of rebar in hand, torn straight from the walls, clutching it so tightly it was biting into his palm. The giant crouched as Pastor leaned over and patted his cheek affectionately. 

I’d been too slow. Pastor had reached Gavel before me. 

You could almost smell the smoke as my plan went up in flames. I’d hoped to intercept one of them before they found the other, facing each with three tailored powers. Instead, if something went wrong here, I’d be facing both and an army of followers. The shapeshifting would be worthless in a fight, the kinetic energy shield was purely defensive, and I’d been drawing on that plus the gravity manipulation since I arrived. They couldn’t have much left in the tank. 

I waited for the next cheer to duck out of the fervour while the room was preoccupied. At my prime it would have been child’s play to immobilise the crowd, shut down Pastor, and reverse whatever had been done to Gavel. Someone had to be controlling him, but this was a sizeable crowd, and I had no idea which of Pastor’s followers was capable of mastering others. 

Instead, I would be forced to sneak out like a coward, processing the new information along the way. Pastor clearly wasn’t in need of rescue - an error on my part. Gavel still had to be removed from the situation, but right now, things were stable. No need to rush into this.

“Already, the blasphemers and the sacrilegious, those who would deny our ascendancy, have come forth to pray at my altar for salvation!” Pastor proclaimed, and my head whipped back up at his words. Had he spotted me? 

Green energy began to swirl around my hand before someone else was forcibly marched out onto the chancel. Three others followed, escorted by even more of Pastor’s victims. One of them raked their four yellow eyes over the crowd, saliva dripping from a maw that couldn’t quite force itself shut. Clear drool mixed with the faded yellow of melted containment foam, the droplets hissing as they landed on the floor and melted through the woodwork. 

I stared up at the jaguar man, at the four PRT officers gathered next to him with their shredded body armour, and lowered myself back into my seat. 

“Yet salvation is not a gift, to be freely given. It is a struggle. Repenting your sins is but the first step on the long road-” Pastor’s head rocked to the side in shock, his speech abruptly cut short as a glob of spittle landed on his cheek. His victims turned towards the captive officers, watching intently as one of them stared daggers at Pastor. She was the only woman of the group, with light brown eyes and buttercup blonde hair that had been cut short to meet regulations. I could see bruises starting to develop across her face, but she didn’t seem to care, too focused on channelling every ounce of her fury into glaring at the false prophet. 

“Fuck your salvation,” she spat, her tone acidic. 

The corporal. The one who’d pointed a gun at me. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all. 

Pastor blinked twice, too used to being surrounded by his devoted that he’d forgotten what dissent looked like. His voice shifted, the previous arrogance replaced with a degree of flustered frustration. 

“See? See how these heathens stray from the path?! They are in dire need of my guidance.” 

An older man with four arms shoved his way through the group at Pastor’s words, grabbing the offending officer. One set of arms pinned her wrists, while the others held her head still. 

“But before they can take the first steps into our glorious world, they must first be reborn!” A triumphant cheer went up from the crowd at Pastor’s latest remark. My mind kept chasing itself in circles, searching for any solution that wasn’t ‘start a massive fight.’ 

“We shall dash them like pieces in a potter’s vessel, and break them with an iron rod, before forging them anew!” 

It seemed so small in the moment, but a spike of annoyance passed through me as he used the book of Psalms to justify violence. He’d even misquoted the verse. 

“Come now, my child. Cast aside your old ways, and accept the gift of God.” 

The four-armed man forced the struggling corporal forwards, her expression mixed between fear and fury. The crowd had stopped cheering, every face fixed forward and rife with anticipation. Pastor smiled, a kindly smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and extended his hand towards the captives. 

I’d seen enough. 

Pastor’s arm slammed back to his side; a green glow looped around his wrist. Wood creaked as the crowd was forcibly seated, each of them falling under the sway of strengthened gravity. Jaws clacked as their mouths were forced shut, and more than one neck clicked as their heads were bowed towards the floor. 

No line of sight, no chance to move, unable to speak a command. It wasn’t perfect, but it should be enough to stop whoever was controlling Gavel from doing the same to me. 

I rose as they fell, green energy rippling from my body. The shapeshifting power reversed, and Pastor smiled wide as I resumed my normal appearance. 

“This charade has gone on long enough. Let them go,” I uttered, my words echoing through the old hall much as Pastor’s had. 

“This must be providence. After all this time, you have returned!” His tone spoke of genuine happiness, as if my appearance was confirming some long-held belief. 

“Surrender your hostages and we can negotiate a peaceful solution.” It was like trying to argue with a brick wall. Pastor continued his tirade, oblivious to the fact I’d said anything at all. 

“You were here at the beginning. It is only fitting that you should be here to witness our next step.” He tried to punctuate his speech by taking a physical step towards the restrained officers, only to notice the verdant glow had extended to his legs. 

He gave me a contented smile instead, watching as I processed his words, his eyes flicking back towards the tapestries decorating the church. I followed his gaze, studying the pictures.

White twine, bent to form humanoid shapes. They were running from a child’s drawing of destroyed buildings and flaming wrecks, rendered in black marker. Chalk etchings of stick figures were flailing in fear from a roughly human image, made from scraps of polished copper and solder that looked almost golden in the right light. 

Above them all were dark green shards of glass from shattered bottles, arranged in the shape of someone hooded and cloaked. The image reappeared throughout the tapestry, leaving two-dimensional devastation in its wake. Houses of matchsticks and scraps of foil were ripped to pieces, stick figures pulled into a swirling vortex as their counterparts on the ground tried to get away, unable to escape the ominous figure. 

Over and over again, throughout the church, the man in green was there. On yellowed tapestries made of actual cloth and drawn by steady hands, scrawled on fresher linens made of leftover scraps. I could almost measure the progression of time through how the fabled man in green was shown, growing more destructive and warped until he simply became a blur, a green smudge on the artwork that invoked the same primal fear of a natural disaster from the hand-drawn audience. 

Every story needed a villain, and he’d picked me. 

I looked back at Pastor, still with the smile on his face, not in the least bit upset by my actions. Eidolon, the ideal that I was supposed to be, meant so much to so many different people. 

In here, the man in green was a monster of biblical proportions. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d been vilified; it wouldn’t be the last. But the sheer lengths Pastor had gone to, building me up into this villainous idol for so many years, that gave me pause. 

Would this be how the rest of Bet would remember Eidolon when all was said and done? A monster in a story, who brought carnage in his wake? 

Haunted stares flickered through my mind, despondent men and women from an observatory that no longer existed. Seething glares and muttered words of hatred from those I had fought and bled alongside. A stranger wearing my face, in a jet-black costume that emanated a pale orange-red glow, plunging a knife into Myrddin's throat. 

Maybe it had already started. 

I shoved the thought away before it could take root. I might not be a good man, but I was a damn sight better than Pastor. He was living a fantasy, enslaving others to help him fulfil a zealot’s dream. My actions, each and every one of them, had been made to help others. When the time came for my judgement, the failures would pale against the successes. All the sacrifices would be worthwhile in the end. 

A refrain that felt less certain every time it passed my mind.

I let out a breath, and looked away. Pastor’s victims were still pressed tightly to the pews, preventing whoever had the master power from seeing me, and protecting the crowd from stampeding over each other if things went wrong. Gavel hadn’t even attempted to move, his eyes remaining glassy and unfocused. Either his puppeteer was incapacitated with gravity holding them down, or they were unwilling to act without their leader’s say so. Good enough. 

I clenched my fist, and the four-armed man’s limbs shot backwards as his hold on the corporal was forcibly removed. She scrambled away, to the relative safety of her comrades. The four took one look at the pews filled with hostile opponents, and started to limp back towards the side door instead. 

“This way,” I called out, as I drifted down alongside them. 

Not out of choice. The gravity power was starting to flicker. I’d drawn on it for too long. 

They hesitated, but eventually changed direction, following me through the centre of the church towards the large entrance doors. Dozens of eyes tracked our boots as we passed, those in the aisle seats struggling to catch us along the way. 

Pastor watched our retreating forms intently, his fingers twitching. 

We were over the threshold, but it was slow going. I debated for a moment if barricading the church doors behind us would help, only to catch sight of Gavel once again. Perhaps not. 

“Pick up the pace,” I grunted at the officers, as they limped down the front steps. They collectively shot me evil looks, heavy boots smashing against the cobbled path as they hobbled away. They’d been through the ringer, but it would all be for nothing if they didn’t speed things up. 

The green wreaths around my wrists sparked again, the last sputtering embers trying in vain to hold on for just a little longer. I could hear the crowd starting to struggle to their feet behind us, and the officers weren’t even a street away. 

Someone needed to stay behind to cover their retreat. I slowed my run, turning back to face the church. 

The officers took another handful of steps before one of them noticed. He looked around as the others kept moving.

“You’re in no shape to fight. Get out of here.” I didn’t listen to his response, straining to keep a grasp on gravity for a few more seconds. It didn’t help.

With a final flare, the green glow winked out of existence. Another option gone forever. 

The chanting began anew as the church roof shattered and a shadow fell across me, a snarling silhouette that blocked out the light. That was more like it. 

Gavel’s club whistled through the air, a starting pistol that signalled the main event. 

I pulled my arms up to guard my face, a boxer’s stance, ready for the next round. 

A storefront that had survived over a decade inside the walls crumbled as a glassy-eyed Gavel flew shoulder-first into the masonry, the force of his blow reversed into his own arm. The crowd didn’t spare him a second look as they began to march, their chanting sounding more and more like a war song with each footstep. He shook himself off, brick dust spilling over his shoulders, and casually slotted himself into the march as if he’d been part of the congregation all along. 

Pastor spread his arms wide, shouting encouragement from the backlines.

“Forwards, my children! Forwards, to our salvation!” 

I shook my head, letting something new rise up inside to replace the gravity power. My hands began to shake, tremors that started in my fingertips and worked their way up until my forearms were vibrating. Pointing one arm downrange, I raised my hand, palm upright, and let the vibrations fly. 

Dirt sprayed up as a thin trench was blasted into the ground. The shakes in my arm slowed briefly, entering a refractory period before speeding up again. Concussive force generation. Not especially strong, and with a need to recharge between shots. Part of me must care too much about Pastor’s victims if I was receiving a non-lethal power now, of all times. 

I looked out at the oncoming horde, almost driving themselves mad with anticipation of what lurked beyond their little town. Three broke away, dashing straight ahead. 

A woman with quills erupting from her body, her skin riddled with scars both fresh and old. A man, his nerves visible as electricity coursed around him. And a kid barely out of their teens, their run a lopsided gait as they tried to balance one musclebound side of their body with the other untouched side. 

Pastor’s victims, his congregation of the damned, they heavily outnumbered me. With their powers, it would be trivial to work around one man, cut off the retreating officers and make it out of the breach. 

The woman with quills ripped two of them out of her forearm, her palms bleeding as she wielded the sharpened instruments. 

Pastor had done something to them, not just to their bodies but to their minds. He’d stripped away the people they used to be, and built something new there instead. He’d built a story, telling his flock of the world outside the walls. Of himself, as a righteous saviour. 

But he’d miscalculated along the way. 

The man subsumed by electricity turned into a raging current for the length of a heartbeat. 

He’d made me into the villain of this tale. Fed his people the delusion of the _invasion_ of Freedom, with me representing everything they’d lost. A large enough role that they’d made drawings of me, years after I’d last been here. He'd even labelled me a fallen angel, because Pastor was nothing if not melodramatic. 

Gavel's rebar banged against the ground as they marched, in tune with the chant.

They wouldn’t go around me. They needed to beat me, because that’s how Pastor’s story ended. They couldn't take back everything they'd lost if the man in green was still in the picture. 

The lopsided teen swung his oversized fist as the crowd charged. 

But I had a story of my own. 

His fist collided with my nose, and I tilted my head as he recoiled in pain. The others crashed forwards, a wave of frenzied zealotry against an impenetrable wall of me. 

It was the story of a man who fought monsters. Who battled demons and villains and the scourges of the world. 

The woman with quills sliced at my neck, the kinetic shield shattering their tip on impact. 

It was the story of a man who knew a terrible truth. Of how that man had dedicated the best years of his life, sacrificed pleasure and desire, friends and family, all in the name of stopping that truth from coming to pass. 

Lightning bolts ripped along the street, tearing through the paintwork of several houses and igniting what little wood remained in several places. Three of Pastor’s own people staggered from the electrical touch. 

It was the story of a man who bore the weight of the world, who only bothered to get out of bed in the morning because of the millions who could die if he didn’t. 

The blows kept raining down, and I stood there unflinching against them all. A symphony of shattered bones and shredded muscles as their own strikes were turned against them. 

It was the story of a man who had come too damn far, given up too much, to stop now. 

Gently, I brought my hands together, fingers interlaced, and fired the concussive power. The force bounced from palm to palm, reflected hundreds of times every second by the kinetic shield, unable to find a way out. The vibrations slowed, sped up, slowed, and sped up again, the power growing in strength as it charged, firing over and over again into a handheld cage until my arms finally stilled. 

My fingertips parted, and the shockwave tore the street apart. 

The smouldering flames were snuffed from the force, shattering windows and bowling over the crazed horde. The effects reached Pastor, still stood on the top step leading down from his church, and knocked the man flat on his back as the church doors rattled on their hinges. 

A sonic boom, in the palm of my hand. Not quite as subtle as gravity manipulation, but it did the trick. 

The poor souls that had been closest to me were writhing on the ground, clawing at their heads. Ruptured eardrums were never pleasant to deal with, but it would keep them out of the way. The ones slightly further back clutched at windowsills or low-hanging brickwork, slowly pulling themselves upright again. At the very rear of the group, the young child I’d seen before was crouched next to Pastor, helping the false prophet to his feet. 

“You fucker.” 

And then there was the seven-foot-tall mountain of a man, whose eyes were no longer glassy. 

Gavel calmly walked through the crowd, head sweeping from side to side, uncaring of where his gigantic footsteps landed. Watching him move was akin to watching a shark hunting for its next meal. 

He rolled his shoulders, and gave me a feral grin. Slowly, he looked back the way he'd come, towards the man on the church steps, still struggling upright.

My fingers vibrated as I cracked my knuckles. 

Time to see which of our stories would be coming true. 


	15. Deep Breath

Ever since the first superpowered villain appeared, there had been people trying to understand them. The field of psychology had gone through a metamorphosis almost overnight, leading to a new breed of criminal psychologists determined to understand these strange and scary individuals. 

Theories were discarded almost as quickly as they were made, scientific models dumped in the bin the moment another villain emerged to re-break the already shattered mould. Pieces of the puzzle had been unearthed along the way, but any scholar worth the name would admit that they’d barely begun to plumb the depths.

Childhood issues, the allure of money, lashing out at an unjust world, misguided vengeance, all the old problems that led people astray, now turned up by a factor of a hundred the moment powers entered the equation. A thief could singlehandedly empty a shopping mall in a night. One cape’s lust for power could lead to them ruling an entire city. 

The unbridled hunger in Gavel’s eyes as he looked towards the church spoke of a different reason. In the old world, he might have lived his life repressing those urges, learned to work through them, or even received the help he clearly needed. 

But that wasn’t this world. 

“Guess I should be honoured. Didn’t think any of you cowards had the balls to follow me in here,” rumbled the giant, gently running his thumb along the edge of the rebar in his hand. 

Anorexic fingers scrabbled at the hem of his pants, as one of Pastor’s victims tried to pull themselves back up again. Gavel sneered in disgust. Idly, he shifted a gargantuan foot, bringing his boot down on the stick-thin limb without a care in the world. 

“Now then,” he said, a predatory smile on his lips, “you gonna fight me?” 

I brought my palms together, another shockwave beginning to coalesce within. He chuckled. 

“Always did like a challenge.” 

His footfalls thundered as Gavel turned and sprinted towards Pastor, ploughing through the recovering crowd to a chorus of cries and screams. I looked away, and saw the PRT officers were still in view as they hauled themselves down the road. Another impossible choice to add to the long line. Stay here and secure their exit, or save Pastor before he becomes a smear on the sidewalk? 

Four lives, against a chance at stopping extinction. If our roles were reversed, I hoped they’d make the same choice. 

I crouched, my hands next to the floor and a little bit behind me. Concussive energy roiled and writhed, desperate for a release. The kinetic shield still had enough juice left for a few good bursts. 

The next moment I was rocketing forwards, the sonic boom propelling me up and over the crowd, over the buildings, faster than even Gavel could move.

Redirected force lashed out on the landing, shattering the bottom step leading up to the church. My teeth rattled from the impact, the shield running on fumes. Pastor paled in the brief moment before the aftereffects reached him, sending both him and his child victim head over heels. 

“You’re gonna have to do better than that if you wanna live up to the famous reputation.” 

My flesh tingled, Gavel’s insult going unheeded as my third power went back to work. Cells divided and multiplied at the speed of thought, shapeshifting equalling the playing field between myself and the insane crusader.

When I turned, I stood head and shoulders over the mountain of a man, my enlarged palms already pressed tightly together. For once, my literal shadow matched my metaphorical one. 

Gavel skidded back a step or two, digging his rebar into the ground to brace himself as a larger shockwave rocked the length of the street. Several of Pastor’s victims left the ground for a brief moment from the gale force blow. 

Someone vomited as I clapped once more, the vertigo from being a rag doll in the concussive storm giving them nausea. Gavel forced his way forwards through the shockwave, making up ground only to slide back after each step. A stalemate. 

My arms were already steadying before I’d even finished the thought, my agent deeming the concussive force insufficient and drawing it back. 

I needed something to quell the crowd, a power to stop Gavel, protection from whatever mental compulsion he’d been under, a way to keep Pastor safe, a way to keep _me_ safe while all of those abilities reached their full capacity... 

Never enough time. Never the right powers. 

Something new started to swell inside, potentially a partial solution- 

“Apostle! Your treachery will not go unnoticed!” Pastor wheezed, still winded. Gavel’s gaze flicked between him and me. 

“I’m gonna enjoy shutting him up.” 

Jabbing his improvised club into the dirt, Gavel used the length of rebar like a shovel, digging underneath the whimpering form of a young man with cracks beneath the eyes, and scooped them up into his free hand. They clawed at his face, overgrown nails slicing ineffectually against his skin. They could spend the next year trying to carve their way through him, and have nothing to show for it. 

When it came to raw defence, the Brute had won the jackpot. His powers limited the amount of damage he could take at any one time, as well as reducing what little damage did get through to a fraction of its original amount. Detonate a bomb in his lap, and he might end up with a sunburn. Coupled with his enhanced strength, he was the living definition of an unstoppable force. 

“Been too fucking long since I got to do this.” 

As if he was serving a tennis ball, Gavel tossed his latest prey two or three feet up in the air, and shifted his stance until he looked like a baseball player at bat. 

Then, with both hands gripping the club, he swung. 

Normally, a blow from someone as strong as him would shatter bones and liquefy organs. But Gavel liked to play with his food. 

He could choose to transfer his power to things he touched. Turning his rebar into a nigh-invincible club, which in turn could daisy-chain his damage reduction to anything it hit. His target soared through the air towards me, screaming the entire way. 

If Gavel was the unstoppable force, then my kinetic shield was the immovable object. I could see the terror in the projectile man’s eyes as the gifted immunity left him, in the half second before we collided. 

Pastor’s pale cheeks gained a healthy red blush from the shower of gore that followed. I staggered back a step from the collision, feeling the shield eke out a last gasp. 

“Tch. Aim’s off.” 

Stabbing the rebar into the ground, the giant rolled his shoulders and hefted two more members of the congregation off the floor, one in each meaty hand. 

I dropped the dwindling defensive power and moved before he could swing again, feeling my entire body tingle as I pushed the shapeshifting to its limits. Limbs lengthened, my torso stretched, until I looked more like an enormous serpent than a man, slithering down the steps. 

Gavel grunted in annoyance as I snaked my body around him, rubber limbs wrapping dozens of times around his gigantic arms, pinning him in place. Fingers turned into tendrils that wrapped themselves around the buildings on either side of the street, a verdant web with him caught in the middle. Couldn't swing a club without any leverage. 

Plaster flaked off of buildings as my fingers dug deeper into the brickwork, scrabbling to anchor myself in the crumbling storefronts. Gavel jabbed outwards with his elbows, two pains piercing into my sides, as he tried to push away the bonds wrapping around his arms. When that didn’t work, he began pulling at the edge of my contorted form, trying to rip my body away with just his fingers. I didn’t fight it, simply letting the shapeshifting lengthen my torso every time he pulled. 

By the time he’d cottoned on to what was happening, I was half again as large as I had been. The extra mass tightened like elastic snapping back into place, the new folds of skin squeezing around his neck. 

Despite his inhuman strength, he still needed to breathe. A lesson we’d all learned the hard way. 

His throat was almost as thick as tree trunk, and I could feel the tendons strain each time I constricted. Something new swelled inside, almost in response to his struggles. Waves of non-aggressive feelings pulsed off of me, an emotion power blooming to life. 

My elongated neck turned at angles that would have been impossible for a normal man to manage, watching as the riotous crowd began to lose some of their frenzied energy. An aura of calm, reaching out to those around me. Even Gavel started to slacken, his jabs losing their edge as the fight went out of him. 

I would have called it a victory, if it wasn’t for the devilish gleam in his eye. 

Moments before, he’d almost been on the verge of panicking. Then the aura’s pulse, my answer to pacifying him, the victims, and Pastor all at once, had given him a moment to collect his thoughts. A recurring problem with emotion powers, you could never tell exactly how they would affect someone. Especially someone as twisted in the head as Gavel. 

He sucked down as much of a breath as he could manage. I pulsed the aura again, calming the crowd even as I felt his leg muscles tense. 

Then he jumped. 

New holes were torn in the storefronts as my tendril fingers were forcibly pulled upwards, gouging lines in the walls for a painful moment until I yanked them back. Gavel let out a muffled chuckle, and I tightened the rest of my body in response. 

A wave of cracked eyes stared up in wonder at the flesh kite wrapped tightly around a laughing maniac. Pastor was shouting something, snapping some of them out of the enthrallment, but his words were lost in the rush of air. 

Shop rooftops blew past us, and for a moment I had a minor pang of concern that we wouldn’t stop without hitting the artificial sky. 

Thankfully, we started to fall without breaking the dome, Gavel twisting and turning all the way down. My eyes darted to Pastor, making certain that we weren’t about to crush the man I was trying to rescue. A small mercy that the leap hadn’t put him directly underneath us. 

A moment too late, I realised what was underneath us instead. 

“Gnnh!” 

Like a spit through a kebab, the rebar skewered my side as we landed. Gavel bounced off the impalement, earning nothing more than a small bruise on his exposed shoulder. He rolled away as I deflated, limbs retracting and torso shrinking until I was my usual size. 

Something squelched and a pained gasp wheezed its way out of me, like air escaping a balloon. Every slight movement drew another wince, my hands coming away slick as I tried to feel the wound. Red-hot lances speared through my mind, slowing any attempt at shapeshifting my way out. 

People were sprinting around me, the calming spell broken as my agent ripped the aura away, deeming it woefully insufficient. I didn’t have the breath to argue. 

Two Gavels... no, one Gavel, flickered through my vision. Flesh-coloured lumps were bodily throwing themselves against him, mimicking my attempt to pin him down. 

Not lumps. Pastor’s victims. I squeezed my eyes shut, the blurred images sharpening again when I reopened them. 

The pain was excruciating, but I knew, instinctually, that it would pass. I’d been shot, incinerated, scattered into atoms, and every time I bounced back. Once again, I placed my life in the hands of a higher power, praying that it would manifest the right ability. 

All I had to do was survive until it arrived. 

With an agonizing sluggishness, I gritted my teeth and grabbed for the bar. Slowly, embarrassingly slowly, I pulled at the corrugated metal, gingerly trying to lift myself off the stake. It was shaky work, and every breath rattled me to the core. 

For anyone else, that would have been enough. But I still had a mission here, and the congregation weren’t slowing Gavel down. 

Shuddering, I wrapped one hand around the rebar, fingers pointing inwards, feeling the edge of the shorn metal biting against my gloves. A second of screams passed from the crowd before I could muster up the strength to move its twin, hissing through clenched teeth as I turned over slightly, just enough to force my other arm underneath my body. 

My fingertips flared, bright red lasers cascading out and slicing through both ends of the embedded rebar. I toppled sideways, biting down a pained grunt as the metal vacated my side. 

Regeneration finally arrived, strands of flesh reaching out to their counterparts and entwining themselves, as if someone was knitting my skin. It wasn’t fast, but it was the best power that had been made available. 

Not that I could wait for it to finish.

The crowd threw themselves out of the way as the blazingly hot lasers scorched the air, smouldering against Gavel’s spine with a muted hiss. Half a dozen men and women were trying to wrestle him into submission to no avail, but it was the tiniest pinpricks of light and heat that drew his attention away from Pastor. 

“You just don’t know when to fucking quit, do ya?” 

He rumbled out a laugh, amused despite the small army baying for his blood. 

“Want a front row seat? Never took you for a spectat-…" Gavel stiffened, his voice trailing off as I launched five beams towards his face, the other hand pressed against the recovering wound. Pastor’s followers leapt off of him in fear of the lasers that had severed steel, but besides burning a few new holes in his workout top, Gavel seemed unfazed.

I kept at it, blasting a continuous barrage into his head and chest, whittling him down. His powers might limit the amount of damage he could take, but that amount wasn’t zero. Like a trickle of water breaking through a dam, it could eventually flood whatever lay beyond. 

He took a wobbly step towards me, and I brought my other hand to bear, trying to stifle a wince as the air made contact with the raw skin on my side. He kept coming, his steps growing in ease with each footfall. If he’d been a hero, I’d have commended his tenacity. 

Then something moved out of the corner of my eye. Pastor’s victims, trying to sneak up on me from the side. The lasers lost their concentrated focus for a single moment, but that was all it took for Gavel to bound over the remaining distance between us. 

A meaty palm went around my neck, lifting me clean off the ground as the air went out of my lungs. My fingers scrabbled at his hand, prying at his digits to relieve the building pressure. It was like trying to tug a toy out of a very possessive dog’s mouth. Didn’t matter what I did, his grip was a vice. 

I tried to shapeshift again, grunting in shock as the feeling of something tearing shot up my wounded side. The power that reshaped my cellular structure didn't play nicely with the power that was painstakingly knitting my body back together. Great time to find that out. 

Like a child with an action figure, Gavel grabbed my left arm with his right and pulled it up, holding it in a perfectly straight line away from my torso. No more concentrated lasers. 

Effortlessly, he carried me back to the church, a procession of Pastor’s victims following us. 

“Careful now. His death has long been foretold. Such an occasion should be savoured.” With stuttering movements, I forced myself to look towards Pastor as he stepped forwards, just off to Gavel’s side. But he wasn’t directing his words towards me, or to the supervillain trying to wring my neck. 

Someone snuck out from behind Gavel, and I cursed myself for not seeing it earlier. An innocent gap-toothed smile, a worn t-shirt too large for their frame, and an incredibly potent Master power. 

Pastor hunched over, placing his hand on the young child’s shoulder as he whispered reassurances and guidance into their ear. His victims hadn’t been throwing themselves at Gavel blindly, they’d been distracting him while the kid snuck up and tagged the man. 

One of their arms was held loosely out to the side, the other positioned almost straight up. Slowly, they clenched their tiny fist, and I could feel Gavel’s fingers tightening in response. I tried to restructure my neck, to expand my airways as much as possible, and felt the same feeling of being savaged by an animal as the wound tore itself open again. 

The pain brought clarity, and I hastily tried to piece together the specifics of the kid’s powers. Some kind of body mimicry, forcing Gavel to mimic their motions after touching him. They’d lost control earlier, after being on the receiving end of the shockwaves. A lapse in concentration could end the effect?

More importantly, why hadn’t the child done the same to me? A limitation of the power? Some form of rest period between uses? 

Or after a lifetime of being told stories about the fabled man in green, were they simply too scared to lay a hand on the demon that destroyed homes and stole their families? 

Gavel’s hand clenched again, an ugly mirror of my earlier attempts to choke him. I fired the only lasers I could still aim directly into his eyes. 

“Cease your struggles, angel. As you once presided over our darkest hour, now you shall bear witness to our ascendancy.” Pastor brushed himself off, and beckoned towards someone I couldn’t see. I ignored his request and kicked Gavel in the chest. 

It was like trying to kick through a concrete wall. Ignoring the throbbing feeling taking root in my foot, and the black spots starting to dance in my vision, I planted both my legs against the vigilante’s pecs and tried to push myself away. 

Nothing. Gavel didn’t react, and the kid mastering him just looked on curiously. My head was pounding, the burning sensation in my lungs growing worse with every failed breath. 

Without a second thought, I cast off the shapeshifting and the regeneration, hoping for something that could fix this. 

Then my sleeves started to inflate, and for what felt like the thousandth time, I cursed my inability to choose my own powers. In its infinite wisdom, my agent had ‘solved’ the problem of strangulation by letting me respire through my skin. 

With some air finally breaching the blockade of muscle, I started kicking Gavel again with renewed effort, ignoring the pain as Pastor’s victims took up their chant once more. I could guess why. Just made it even more urgent that I get out of his clutches. 

“And so do we give thanks to the Lord above, for delivering these sinners into our midst. For only with our support can they be truly cleansed.” Pastor addressed the crowd, and I slammed my foot into Gavel’s barrel chest. Something snapped, and it wasn’t Gavel’s ribs. 

“Bring them forwards, my faithful. Let them know peace.”

I refocused on the lasers, jabbing my fingers directly into his eyes. His retinas darkened, the effects of staring directly at something so bright for so long finally making an impact on his defences, but the child master didn’t let him blink. 

“Together, we shall guide them to a better world!” The crowd cheered, as they forced their prizes forward. The four PRT officers. They hadn’t run far enough. 

One of them, his eyes wild with terror, was dragged away from his counterparts. Gavel released my arm only to jab his fingers into my injured side, eliciting a pained groan. This kid was a sadist. 

“What say you?!” A roar answered, as a new ability of my own rose up. With my head next to Gavel’s ear, I hacked out a command. 

“Release me.” 

The fog in the giant’s eyes lessened for a moment before I felt the words rebound, rejecting the order. The new power wasn’t fully charged, the kid’s pre-existing control trumping it in its weakened state. 

Straining, I forced myself to face them instead, and got a gigantic hand to the underside of the jaw for my troubles, slamming my mouth closed with enough force that I almost bit through my tongue. 

“Now come, my child. Embrace the gift of God.” Pastor knelt down towards the struggling man, his hands outstretched, and I felt the last grains of the hourglass run out. 

Wild Eye writhed in place, his comrades struggling weakly against their captors. He started bucking wildly when no help appeared, cursing and shouting. 

The moment Pastor’s hands brushed the man’s forehead, a burst of white light shone where flesh met flesh, and the officer let out a scream that could have woken the dead. 

Most senior employees in the PRT had their ideas of what Pastor could do. They'd watched the leaked video from some of his captives, the one that first tipped us off to what exactly was going on in Freedom, and they didn’t look any further than that. He granted powers to others, they became pliable to his suggestions, and we sealed him away after his followers started kidnapping people for him to use. Fairly cut and dry, as capes went. 

But there was a fundamental misconception with that idea. He wasn’t a power granter. He was a power _enabler._

For most people, there were only two ways to gain superhuman abilities. The first involved a visit to the Doctor. The second, as it had been described to me, required a baptism by fire. Something had to break inside you after being pushed too far. It needed specific circumstances, specific timing, every minute detail had to be just right for it to work. In other words, it was a delicate operation. 

Pastor’s power let him try a brute force solution instead. 

I watched helplessly as the officer spasmed and twitched, white light so dazzlingly bright that it hurt to look at moving from Pastor’s hand to encase the officer’s head, undergoing the worst day of his life on fast forward. 

Like a hacker can enter every possible password to break into a computer, Pastor was able to try every permutation of the so-called trigger event on a person, forcing them to undergo the same stresses and fears that those who received powers from the golden man had once faced. 

Crushing loneliness, the knowledge that you’ll be alone forever despite your best efforts. The fear of being trapped in a burning car, all too aware that the flames can’t be far away from the fuel tank. An abusive marriage with no way out, being chased by something you can’t possibly fight, the lack of feeling below your neck after the paramedics pull you from the wreckage... Cauldron had recorded what natural triggers they could, and even they had barely scratched the surface. 

Pastor simulated all those feelings, down to tiniest detail, with his power. Pushed it into his victims, switching from one traumatic experience to the next without pause. 

The human mind wasn’t designed to deal with something like that. It would fragment, everything non-essential for survival cast off in a desperate attempt to keep the brain functioning. Personalities, memories, it all went. 

Their body wouldn’t fare much better. Brute-forcing a trigger broke a few rules, including the safeties that most natural capes received. I thought back to the lava-thrower I’d fought all those years ago, her arms burnt down to charred bones. 

If they were one of the lucky ones, the experience would be too much. The heart would give out, and they’d go to a better place. 

If they were unlucky, then their dormant Corona Pollentia would activate, and Pastor would gain another follower. 

If they were really unlucky, they wouldn’t be the only ones affected. 

My eyes darted over to the other three officers. Two of them were still on their feet, but the third was swaying. The white light brightened, a manmade sunspot, as one of the foam-sprayers let out their own shrieking scream. 

Scholars theorised that for every one person who gained powers, there were five more who had the potential to get them. We’d had the Number Man crunch the information, and if anything, that figure might have been on the low end. 

Something about the way Pastor enabled powers set off a sympathetic reaction in those nearby, kickstarting the Pollentia’s of others. A chain reaction of broken triggers. 

That we’d caught him before he grew bold enough to venture out of his town was a minor miracle. Catastrophic would have been an understatement if he’d reached anywhere with sufficient population density. Times Square sprung to mind. In a way, we’d been lucky. 

If only the same could be said for Wild Eye and his foam-spraying friend. 

I braced myself, knowing what came next. 

Twin beings spiralled through the stars, a vision that still haunted me all these years later. 

Gavel was upright as I came back to the real world, his master’s power forcing his body to remain stable. Pastor’s people, whether by luck or some quirk of his power-enabling, were immune to the blackout effects of the vision. A nasty surprise I’d learned the hard way the last time we were here. 

Wild Eye and his comrade took Pastor’s hands, rising to rapturous applause from the crowd. Deep cracks in their skin ran from underneath their eyes, past their noses, and culminated under the chin, like a pair of symmetrical tattoos. 

A patch of smooth skin had formed where Wild Eye’s mouth had once been, rendering the bottom half of his face flat around the cracks. I could see his jaw working as he tried to make a chewing motion, the muscles still intact, but unable to perform their job. The foam sprayer still had a mouth, but it hung slack, their jaw lengthened to give them an extremely large overbite. 

“Welcome to the family.” Pastor smiled at them both, embracing his latest victims. “Now bring forwards the rest of the sinners!” 

Wild Eye and the foam sprayer clapped along with the chanting crowd as their fellow officers were shoved towards the church steps. Pastor started a new speech, and I racked my brain for a plan. 

Fingertip lasers, bodily respiration, and a vocal compulsion power. The lasers might have damaged Gavel’s eyes, but he didn’t need those while the kid held his strings. The respiration was the only thing keeping me breathing. The vocal compulsions needed a chance to charge if it was going to bulldoze through the existing Master power. Even if it had been at capacity, Gavel was still pinning my jaw closed. 

But to hold my mouth shut, he’d dropped my other arm. 

The lasers couldn’t dislodge Gavel. Pastor was at the wrong angle for me to hit. Shooting into the crowd wouldn’t accomplish anything. 

So I aimed for the only target available. 

My left hand, the one recently freed, fired bright red lasers from my fingertips. Two hit the floor, smouldering out of existence. One went too high, catching an awning. 

The final two reached their mark. 

The kid took both lasers to the arm and fell back with a shriek. Gavel’s body mimicked the motion, his grip slackening as he threw me backwards, the fog in his eyes just starting to lift. I clipped the wooden door, tumbling through the church into a row of pews. Pastor broke off his speech and the crowd surged forwards. 

Then the sky exploded, and all hell broke loose. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry the update rate has really slowed down over the last month or so. I've been very busy irl, new job, new place, plus Eidolon can be surprisingly difficult to write. Thankfully the rest of arc 2 is mostly drafted, and only needs some editing work before its good to go, so hopefully the wait won't be quite as long as it has been between chapters.


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